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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A lost session was shared by the group. Nice food, good libations and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. Naturally, the point dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

During my time in my line, I tried to spark some friendly chat started about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

One person smiled, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to express an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.