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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The attending party were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine cuisine, good drink and unexpectedly humorous tales about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an unpleasant change, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to express recognition of this reversed situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not fault her.