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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is key.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was had by all. Good food, good beverages and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter started about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an irksome difference, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.