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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I believe it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice cuisine, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Naturally, the point came for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A useful metric for any advanced culture would be balanced access in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

During my time in my queue, I tried to spark some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something like: “Ah, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it lads?”

One person smiled, a second appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female glided out of the next-door toilet, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not censure her.