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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were exclusively male, which is significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine food, nice drink and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. Naturally, the point arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised community would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to express an understanding of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.