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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The present group were solely men, which is key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good beverages and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I endeavoured 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 said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady glided out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not censure her.