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Just before the holidays, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't important. The attending group were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine food, good libations and remarkably entertaining tales about dentistry. Naturally, the time arrived for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Females, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to get some brotherly banter started about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome difference, right lads?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. An individual came out, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.