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Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual situation. I feel it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not relevant. The attending group were solely men, which proves to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Good cuisine, fine drink and remarkably humorous tales about dentistry. Naturally, the moment dawned for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any modern society would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

During my time in my wait, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this novel situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Yet another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, quiet prevailed. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group shuffled up a spot. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A lady wafted out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not fault her.