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Shortly before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The attending party were solely men, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any modern community would be equal waiting times in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Returning to my line, I attempted to get some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a position. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female emerged out of the next-door restroom, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly would not censure her.