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Just before the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The present group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, fine libations and surprisingly entertaining tales about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one 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

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be gender parity in toilet queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

Back in my line, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something like: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable variation, isn't it lads?”

Someone grinned, a second appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence ensued. A man emerged, zipping up. The queue advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Interaction

A woman emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey recognition of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not censure her.