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Just before Christmas, I had an unusual episode. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending group were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Fine cuisine, good libations and surprisingly entertaining anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the moment came for excursions to the men's room. Those who went, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it came to me next, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex walk straight through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Women, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is restricted to the odd eye roll and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

Had I been a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession simply for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like crazy at the sheer injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Banter in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried 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 to the effect of: “Well, this is an irksome difference, isn't it boys?”

One person chuckled, someone else appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet reigned. A man exited, zipping up. The line advanced a position. A couple more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Interaction

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this reversed state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and at that point I could give you the time.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.