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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Nice food, nice beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Inevitably, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women glide through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly in line with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is restricted to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A handy measure for any advanced society would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone exited, zipping up. The group shuffled up a position. Another two men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady emerged out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t censure her.