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Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, good drink and surprisingly humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the time dawned for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A useful metric for any modern society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, right boys?”

A fellow grinned, another appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a place. Another two men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not fault her.