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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't important. The attending crowd were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice libations and surprisingly humorous tales about teeth. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a shared procession merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A handy metric for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.