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Just before the holidays, I experienced an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A wasted session was shared by the group. Fine food, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing tales about oral health. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the sinks later that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a public line simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an irksome variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

A fellow chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more example of modern woes, woke madness etc. Aside from that, stillness ensued. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a spot. Two more men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female emerged out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this a hundred more times and only then I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly could not blame her.