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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an unusual episode. I believe it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A lost daytime was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, looked to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any female reader 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 witnessed women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully with others with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is restricted to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any advanced culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome variation, doesn’t it lads?”

One person chuckled, a second looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The queue moved forward a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.