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Just before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine cuisine, good drink and remarkably entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting 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 line knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Returning to my line, I attempted to get some friendly chat flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this represents an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man emerged, zipping up. The line advanced a position. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not fault her.