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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was had by all. Fine fare, good beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Inevitably, the time came for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for pity from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my mates, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

About this topic I’ve polled some women of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any modern community would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I tried to get some friendly chat going about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant change, isn't it boys?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to express recognition of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.