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Shortly before the holidays, I had an unusual incident. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not important. The present crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, fine libations and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the time came for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my queue, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, a second looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual exited, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a spot. 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 next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.