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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but that’s not important. The assembled party were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a tavern enjoying a roaring trade. A lost daytime was had by all. Fine food, good drink and remarkably entertaining stories about dentistry. Inevitably, the point arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, looked to be absent a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I witnessed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be rather good at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare eye roll and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins later that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a common queue simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Back in my wait, I attempted to initiate some male camaraderie going about this novel situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something to the effect of: “Well, this is an unpleasant variation, isn't it lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet ensued. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a spot. Another two men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A woman glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed scenario. She said: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly would not censure her.