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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Nice fare, good libations and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the time dawned for trips to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat started about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, a second looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A lady emerged out of the next-door toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not blame her.