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Just before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled crowd were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, good libations and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy metric for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Back in my queue, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, someone else appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not blame her.