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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled party were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Nice food, nice drink and surprisingly entertaining tales about teeth. Naturally, the point dawned for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an disagreeable variation, right chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not censure her.