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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an extraordinary situation. I feel it did me good. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not important. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Fine cuisine, fine drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point came for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat going about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, another looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.