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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an extraordinary incident. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The assembled group were solely men, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine beverages and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. Naturally, the time came for trips to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

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

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

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

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy measure for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an irksome change, right chaps?”

One person grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The line moved forward a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A woman emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to communicate acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t fault her.