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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, nice libations and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the moment came for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was 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 female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Well, this is an irksome change, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.