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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost session was shared by the group. Nice fare, good drink and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line 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, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful metric for any modern society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Back in my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Well, this is an disagreeable difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.