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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable incident. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine beverages and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this was, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins later that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced community would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a place. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.