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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled party were solely men, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good libations and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Naturally, the time came for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

During my time in my line, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone chuckled, another appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The line advanced a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not blame her.