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Just before Christmas, I encountered an unusual episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good libations and surprisingly humorous stories about dentistry. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a spot. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not blame her.