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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, good drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Naturally, the moment dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who went, 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 go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a public line simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Back in my line, I tried to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome difference, doesn’t it lads?”

One person chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.