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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled crowd were solely men, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, good drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Females, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, right boys?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. An individual came out, zipping up. The queue moved forward a place. A couple more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not blame her.