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Shortly before the holidays, I encountered an unusual episode. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending group were all blokes, which is significant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice food, fine beverages and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy metric for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I tried to get some brotherly banter going about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable difference, right lads?”

Someone grinned, someone else looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. An individual exited, zipping up. The line advanced a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.