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Shortly before the holidays, I had an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine food, good drink and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a public line merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A useful metric for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to spark some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

Someone chuckled, a second looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The line advanced a position. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.