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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an unusual situation. I feel it did me good. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a tavern experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was had by all. Fine food, fine beverages and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I surmise, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d waste no time on both pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A useful measure for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of a failing society, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone exited, zipping up. The line shuffled up a place. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Exchange

A lady glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

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