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Just before the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, fine beverages and remarkably amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a common queue only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A valuable metric for any civilised society would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable variation, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a place. A couple more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.