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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an unusual incident. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not important. The attending party were all blokes, which proves to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly humorous tales about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

In addition to the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my mates, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Back in my queue, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this makes an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a third looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A female emerged out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express recognition of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not blame her.