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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about oral health. Naturally, the point dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable change, right boys?”

One person chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a place. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not censure her.