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Just before the festive season, I experienced an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't relevant. The present party were exclusively male, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A wasted session was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice drink and remarkably entertaining tales about oral health. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue knew.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am fully aware that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I imagine, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that intra-queue communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised society would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Back in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some friendly chat flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this is an unpleasant variation, isn't it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, another looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t censure her.