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Just before the festive season, I encountered an unusual incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, fine drink and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. Inevitably, the point arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. A man exited, zipping up. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to express recognition of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.