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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The present party were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A lost session was shared by the group. Good fare, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the time arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie started about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, another looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.