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Just before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, good drink and remarkably amusing anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the moment came for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed 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 humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any modern culture would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I attempted to get some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, a second appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of modern woes, political correctness etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a position. A couple more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t fault her.