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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary incident. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The assembled party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, good drink and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern society would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my line, I tried to get some male camaraderie flowing about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable difference, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.