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Just before Christmas, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, good beverages and unexpectedly humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering 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 obviously aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.