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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, good drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is limited to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a public line merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A useful metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter started about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this is an irksome change, right lads?”

Someone grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a spot. Another two men entered the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not censure her.