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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending party were all blokes, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good libations and remarkably humorous anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the time came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

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

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an disagreeable change, right lads?”

Someone grinned, another appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A female wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.