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Just before the holidays, I experienced an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The present group were exclusively male, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted session was had by all. Good food, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. As expected, the moment arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet reigned. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.