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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an remarkable incident. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but that’s not important. The present group were all blokes, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Fine food, fine libations and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Naturally, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am obviously aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on both niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced society would be equal waiting times in urination queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “So, this makes an irksome change, right lads?”

Someone smiled, a second looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was a further example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men took a place at the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A woman emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned apologetically at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.