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Just before the holidays, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a tavern doing a brisk business. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good drink and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the point came for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Well, this represents an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, zipping up. The group advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate recognition of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.