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Just before Christmas, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it did me good. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The assembled party were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine food, fine drink and unexpectedly amusing tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the portal while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a shared procession merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any modern culture would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

A fellow smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, zipping up. The line advanced a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A lady glided out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not blame her.