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Shortly before Christmas, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The attending crowd were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good food, good beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins later that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a spot. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not fault her.