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Just before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The attending group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A lost afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice libations and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about oral health. Inevitably, the moment dawned for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a restroom is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of humiliation about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer injustice of it. A useful measure for any modern community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something to the effect of: “Ah, this makes an disagreeable difference, right boys?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. An individual exited, zipping up. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A female wafted out of the neighbouring restroom, all clean and at ease. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not fault her.