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In the run-up to Christmas, I had an remarkable incident. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were solely men, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The location was a tavern enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Fine cuisine, nice beverages and surprisingly entertaining tales about dentistry. Inevitably, the time arrived for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets 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 experience. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to stand in a public line only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Back in my line, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable difference, isn't it lads?”

One person grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. An individual came out, fastening his trousers. The line moved forward a place. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey 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 another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She uttered anything. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.