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Shortly before Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine food, good drink and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the point came for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession simply for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Ah, this represents an irksome change, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, someone else looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. An individual emerged, zipping up. The queue moved forward a spot. A couple more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.