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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A lost session was shared by the group. Good cuisine, nice beverages and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, 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 cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully with others with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A handy measure for any civilised society would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a position. Two more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not censure her.