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Shortly before Christmas, I had an remarkable situation. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The present crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, good drink and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the point came for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the sinks later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Well, this is an irksome change, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t fault her.