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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an unusual incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The present party were exclusively male, which is key.

A Strange Situation

The location was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, good libations and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the time came for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a public line simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

One person smiled, a second appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.