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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an unusual situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending crowd were all blokes, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A lost session was had by all. Fine cuisine, fine drink and unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the time came for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a substantial line for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, being forced to wait to use a convenience is standard practice. How many times have I seen women queuing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was obliged to wait patiently in line with my companions, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Females, I presume, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in polite remarks and an notable insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A associate told me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a common queue only for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant variation, right lads?”

One person chuckled, a second appeared confused, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a spot. Two more men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to express acknowledgement of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and at that point I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not fault her.