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Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, fine drink and remarkably humorous stories about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A useful measure for any modern community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an irksome difference, right lads?”

Someone chuckled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A female wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to communicate recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.