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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not important. The present group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good drink and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some friendly chat started about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it lads?”

One person smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly could not censure her.