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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an remarkable situation. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled party were exclusively male, which is key.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost session was had by all. Fine cuisine, good libations and unexpectedly amusing stories about dentistry. Naturally, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I tried to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant change, right boys?”

Someone chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man came out, zipping up. The queue moved forward a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.