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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The assembled party were all blokes, which is relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the moment arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, angling away at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is confined to the occasional eye roll and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either niceties or silence. If I was forced, repeatedly, to queue in a public line simply for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Comradely Banter in the Line

During my time in my queue, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an unpleasant difference, isn't it boys?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another example of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man came out, zipping up. The line moved forward a spot. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Moment

A female glided out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, attempting to express recognition of this reversed situation. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not fault her.