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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not important. The present party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice beverages and remarkably amusing tales about oral health. As expected, the time arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based communication is restricted to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something like: “Well, this is an irksome change, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A woman wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not blame her.