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Shortly before the holidays, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending party were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good food, good beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the moment came for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome difference, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, a second looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, zipping up. The line shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A female wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

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