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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an remarkable incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine libations and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any advanced community would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

One person grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express an understanding of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, 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 never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t censure her.