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Just before the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Nice food, good drink and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a public line simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. An individual exited, zipping up. The line advanced a position. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not censure her.