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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This took place at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, fine drink and remarkably amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A valuable metric for any advanced community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

During my time in my line, I attempted to get some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Well, this is an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone came out, zipping up. The group advanced a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not fault her.