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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an unusual incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Fine food, nice drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the women breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a common queue merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A useful measure for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an disagreeable variation, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A woman emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.