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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, good libations and surprisingly entertaining tales about teeth. As expected, the point dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am fully aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate mentioned it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy measure for any modern community would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, right boys?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual exited, zipping up. The line advanced a place. A couple more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t censure her.