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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The assembled party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing tales about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue moved forward a place. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to express an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not fault her.