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Shortly before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I believe it did me good. This took place at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The present group were all blokes, which is key.

A Novel Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, nice libations and remarkably amusing tales about dentistry. As expected, the time came for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it became me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a female, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone chuckled, another looked blank, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a spot. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.