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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable incident. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the time came for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “So, this is an irksome change, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not censure her.