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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable episode. I feel it did me good. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine food, good libations and surprisingly entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the time arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I tried to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome variation, right lads?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a spot. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and then I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not blame her.