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Just before Christmas, I experienced an unusual situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not relevant. The present group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, fine libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the sinks later that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Back in my line, I tried to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable change, right chaps?”

One person grinned, another looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a position. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not blame her.