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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The attending group were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A lost session was had by all. Nice food, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a common queue only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced community would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I tried to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it lads?”

One person grinned, another appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to express an understanding of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.