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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I think it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted session was had by all. Nice food, nice drink and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a public line only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A useful metric for any modern community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.