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In the run-up to the festive season, I had an unusual episode. I think it did me good. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The assembled party were all blokes, which turns out to be significant.

A Novel Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten session was shared by the group. Good fare, nice beverages and remarkably entertaining stories about dentistry. Naturally, the moment arrived for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for empathy from any lady here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing pleasantries and an notable observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d refrain from on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to queue in a public line merely for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter flowing about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Well, this represents an irksome difference, right chaps?”

One person smiled, another looked blank, a third individual appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. Someone exited, adjusting his clothing. The queue advanced a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the next-door toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.