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Just before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present group were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A lost daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, good drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about oral health. Naturally, the time came for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line knew.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am fully aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. How many times have I observed women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a whiff of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins later that conversation tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the chance to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

During my time in my line, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this represents an irksome difference, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. A couple more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I may give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.