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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary situation. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, nice beverages and remarkably entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for excursions to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “So, this makes an disagreeable change, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. Two more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A female wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.