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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Nice cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable measure for any advanced community would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to spark some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.