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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The present crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Fine fare, fine beverages and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point dawned for trips to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Well, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. Someone came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.