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Shortly before Christmas, I had an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine drink and remarkably entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the moment came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any modern community would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Back in my wait, I tried to spark some friendly chat started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, right boys?”

One person grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not censure her.