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Shortly before Christmas, I had an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The present group were all blokes, which is key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, good beverages and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a spot. Two more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A lady emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express an understanding of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t censure her.