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Shortly before the festive season, I had an unusual incident. I think it did me good. This took place at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending party were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a excellent custom. A wasted daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good drink and unexpectedly entertaining stories about teeth. Inevitably, the point dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

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 considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, watching the women walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to wait patiently in queue with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve polled some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out research on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. Someone exited, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a place. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A woman wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy situation. Her response was: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not censure her.