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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The present party were solely men, which proves to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice drink and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me 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 strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any advanced culture would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person grinned, a second looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not fault her.