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Just before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable incident. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Good food, nice drink and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. As expected, the moment came for trips to the men's room. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue 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 bracing to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole form of small talk here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is confined to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A handy metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to get some friendly chat started about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, isn't it lads?”

One person grinned, someone else looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this topsy-turvy state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not fault her.