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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine fare, fine drink and surprisingly entertaining stories about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to get some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this makes an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

One person smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really could not fault her.