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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an unusual situation. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The present party were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A lost daytime was had by all. Good cuisine, fine libations and unexpectedly entertaining tales about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. How many times have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal familiarity. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is confined to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any advanced community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, right lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. A man came out, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a position. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I sighed.

A Silent Exchange

A female emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to express recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not censure her.