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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be key.

A Novel Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good food, fine drink and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my companions, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my queue, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t censure her.