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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The attending party were solely men, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, good beverages and surprisingly amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Women, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern society would be gender parity in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat started about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an irksome variation, isn't it chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a position. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t censure her.