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Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The present party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Novel Situation

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good food, fine libations and remarkably amusing stories about teeth. Naturally, the moment dawned for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a restroom is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed 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 toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my fellow fellas, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s merely at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

A fellow grinned, a second appeared confused, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, quiet prevailed. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a place. A couple more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A lady emerged out of the next-door facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t censure her.