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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an unusual situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine drink and surprisingly humorous tales about oral health. Inevitably, the time came for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s only at the sinks later that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised culture would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie started about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “So, this makes an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not blame her.