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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not important. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, nice libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the moment came for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a common queue simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A handy measure for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter going about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue moved forward a place. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.