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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The present group were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Good cuisine, fine beverages and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any advanced society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, right chaps?”

One person smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The queue advanced a place. Two more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to convey an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t fault her.