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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present group were all blokes, which is key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a tavern doing a brisk business. A wasted session was had by all. Good cuisine, good beverages and unexpectedly humorous stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the point arrived for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting 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 Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my companions, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Back in my queue, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this makes an disagreeable difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The line advanced a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.