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Just before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The present group were all blokes, which is significant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was had by all. Nice food, nice drink and remarkably humorous anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the moment dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, 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 Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced culture would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Back in my queue, I attempted to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. An individual exited, zipping up. The group advanced a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.