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Just before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't important. The present group were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good beverages and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. As expected, the moment dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world 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 woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is limited to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an disagreeable change, isn't it boys?”

A fellow grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady wafted out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.