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Just before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The assembled group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Good food, fine drink and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A handy measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow grinned, a second looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a position. A couple more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.