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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't important. The present group were exclusively male, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good drink and remarkably amusing tales about oral health. Inevitably, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a position. Two more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman wafted out of the next-door facility, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not blame her.