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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending party were all blokes, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Fine fare, fine libations and surprisingly amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the point came for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an irksome variation, right boys?”

A fellow smiled, a second looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a place. Two more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not censure her.