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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which is significant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, good beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me 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 fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a common queue simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A useful metric for any advanced community would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a position. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not fault her.