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Just before the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't important. The assembled group were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Nice food, nice beverages and remarkably entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the time arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based interaction is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a shared procession only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern society would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The line shuffled up a spot. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not fault her.