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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not relevant. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. As expected, the moment came for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I observed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins later that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a public line only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. Someone exited, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman wafted out of the next-door toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not censure her.