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Just before the holidays, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending party were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, nice drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised community would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, right lads?”

One person smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.