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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The attending crowd were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good food, good drink and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment came for trips to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern society would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this is an unpleasant difference, right boys?”

Someone grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a position. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.