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Just before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I feel it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are, as it happens dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present party were solely men, which is key.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Good food, good beverages and surprisingly humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for trips to the gents. Those who departed, I partially registered, looked to be gone a considerable while. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it was my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently with others with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Art of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations later that discussion tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d refrain from on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a common queue simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful measure for any modern society would be balanced access in wee waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my queue, I tried to spark some friendly chat going about this unprecedented situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something to the effect of: “Well, this makes an disagreeable difference, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Silent Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate recognition of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not censure her.