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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an unusual incident. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Nice fare, nice beverages and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for trips to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern culture would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my line, I attempted to spark some friendly chat started about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a spot. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman wafted out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.