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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine beverages and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced community would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an irksome variation, isn't it lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Another two men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t censure her.