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Just before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled party were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine beverages and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the sinks later that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome variation, right chaps?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not blame her.