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Just before Christmas, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The attending group were solely men, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice beverages and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. Naturally, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to stand in a public line simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A handy metric for any advanced society would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a position. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

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