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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice food, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the point came for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is confined to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter started about this novel circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, a second appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not blame her.