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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, fine libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

A fellow grinned, someone else looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to express recognition of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.