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Just before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine beverages and unexpectedly humorous stories about oral health. Naturally, the moment arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A useful metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to initiate some friendly chat started about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this represents an disagreeable change, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The group shuffled up a spot. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A woman glided out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not censure her.