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Just before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I think it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not important. The attending group were exclusively male, which is key.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, good libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to stand in a public line simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

During my time in my line, I tried to spark some friendly chat started about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

One person smiled, another looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a spot. Two more men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not blame her.