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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A forgotten session was had by all. Fine fare, fine beverages and remarkably humorous stories about teeth. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the odd eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter going about this new state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this represents an irksome change, right lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a spot. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady emerged out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this upside-down scenario. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t fault her.