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Shortly before the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The attending crowd were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a tavern doing a brisk business. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine food, fine drink and surprisingly humorous tales about dentistry. Naturally, the moment came for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a common queue merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat started about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a place. Two more men entered the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady glided out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not censure her.