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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good libations and remarkably entertaining stories about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering 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 handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s only at the sinks later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this represents an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

Someone grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.