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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual situation. I feel it did me good. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten session was had by all. Fine food, nice libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

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

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that chat tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern culture would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, right boys?”

A fellow smiled, someone else looked blank, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.