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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The present party were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Nice fare, good drink and remarkably amusing anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really could not fault her.