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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice libations and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the moment dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any modern society would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable change, isn't it boys?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time.”

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