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Just before Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, fine libations and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time dawned for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an irksome change, right lads?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady glided out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, attempting to express recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not blame her.