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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice fare, fine libations and unexpectedly amusing stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point came for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find 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 fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Back in my line, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A woman wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not censure her.