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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an unusual situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The present party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice food, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, a second looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not blame her.