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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Fine fare, fine libations and unexpectedly humorous tales about dentistry. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be gone a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, angling away at something we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the rare weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d waste no time on either niceties or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced community would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I attempted to initiate some friendly chat started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “So, this makes an irksome difference, right lads?”

One person chuckled, a second looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of a failing society, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. An individual emerged, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a position. Two more men entered the rear of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman glided out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not censure her.