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Just before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were exclusively male, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Good fare, good drink and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this was, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the entrance while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a public line only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Back in my queue, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, doesn’t it boys?”

One person chuckled, another appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a place. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, trying to express an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not blame her.