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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good food, good drink and unexpectedly amusing stories about oral health. Inevitably, the point arrived for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Females, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A useful measure for any civilised society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this is an irksome difference, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. An individual came out, zipping up. The group advanced a place. Two more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A lady glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.