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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a tavern doing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting 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 gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A useful metric for any modern society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

During my time in my queue, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female emerged out of the next-door facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not fault her.