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Just before Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good cuisine, fine libations and remarkably amusing tales about oral health. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am fully conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an notable observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a shared procession simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A useful measure for any advanced culture would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome difference, isn't it chaps?”

Someone grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.