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Shortly before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A lost daytime was had by all. Good fare, good drink and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. Inevitably, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Returning to my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant variation, right lads?”

Someone chuckled, another appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not fault her.