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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary situation. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice food, good drink and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a public line merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some brotherly banter started about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done 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 nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t fault her.