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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The present group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, nice drink and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully with others with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that chat tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not censure her.