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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I believe it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens dental professionals, but this isn't pertinent. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good cuisine, fine drink and surprisingly entertaining stories about teeth. As expected, the time came for visits to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it came to my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for ladies, needing to line up to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a row while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at anything we had in our jackets and checking our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an interesting observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line dialogue is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any advanced society would be balanced access in toilet waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie flowing about this novel circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant change, right lads?”

Someone chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further example of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. An individual came out, zipping up. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not censure her.