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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't important. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, good drink and surprisingly humorous stories about teeth. As expected, the time dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “Well, this is an unpleasant difference, right lads?”

One person smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.