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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an unusual episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The present group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A lost session was had by all. Fine cuisine, nice drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I observed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women breeze through the portal while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Back in my line, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “So, this is an disagreeable difference, right lads?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not blame her.