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Just before the festive season, I had an remarkable episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were exclusively male, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost session was shared by the group. Good fare, fine libations and remarkably humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the moment came for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful measure for any advanced society would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie started about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable change, right boys?”

Someone smiled, another appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. A man emerged, zipping up. The line shuffled up a position. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady glided out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really would not fault her.