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Just before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good beverages and remarkably amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either niceties or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a shared procession only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A valuable metric for any advanced community would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Well, this is an disagreeable change, right lads?”

Someone grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not blame her.