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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't important. The present group were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Good food, nice drink and remarkably amusing anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the point dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, 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 queue recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow grinned, someone else looked blank, a third looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t censure her.