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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Nice fare, nice beverages and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Naturally, the point dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my companions, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat started about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Well, this represents an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.