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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good drink and remarkably humorous anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment came for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a public line only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it chaps?”

One person smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not censure her.