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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The present group were exclusively male, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good libations and remarkably amusing stories about dentistry. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a queue 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 waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A handy metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I tried to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, doesn’t it boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman emerged out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not censure her.