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Just before the holidays, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The present group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice fare, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining stories about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting 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 knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, isn't it boys?”

One person grinned, a second appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. A man came out, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not fault her.