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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable episode. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The attending party were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, nice libations and surprisingly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable difference, right lads?”

A fellow chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a place. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not blame her.