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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The attending group were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good libations and remarkably humorous anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

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 great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, 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 women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a public line only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my queue, I tried to spark some friendly chat going about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant change, isn't it boys?”

Someone smiled, a second looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a place. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all clean and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to convey recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not censure her.