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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The present group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, nice beverages and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the moment dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. An individual came out, zipping up. The group shuffled up a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.