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Just before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine fare, fine drink and unexpectedly amusing stories about dentistry. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is limited to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an irksome difference, isn't it boys?”

One person smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a spot. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not blame her.