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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an unusual episode. I believe it did me good. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, fine beverages and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of indignity about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is confined to the rare eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a public line merely for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Chat in the Line

Returning to my line, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it lads?”

One person grinned, a second looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a spot. Another two men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, attempting to convey recognition of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not censure her.