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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is restricted to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a common queue merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Well, this represents an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not blame her.