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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not important. The attending party were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, nice libations and remarkably humorous anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the time came for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my line, I tried to initiate some friendly chat started about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this represents an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a spot. A couple more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female glided out of the next-door toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.