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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an unusual episode. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a shared procession simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. A man exited, zipping up. The line advanced a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not censure her.