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Just before the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice fare, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the time dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern community would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome variation, right boys?”

A fellow chuckled, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A female wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really could not blame her.