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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The venue was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Nice cuisine, good libations and remarkably entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow grinned, someone else appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not blame her.