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In the run-up to the holidays, I had an remarkable episode. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The attending party were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was shared by the group. Nice food, good beverages and remarkably amusing stories about dentistry. As expected, the point arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it came to me next, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the opposite gender walk straight through the portal while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my mates, fiddling at something we had in our pockets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Females, I imagine, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging insight or two.

About this topic I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the rare weary glance and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the sinks later that chat tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a public line merely for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the pure unfairness of it. A valuable metric for any modern community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my line, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this new circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome variation, doesn’t it lads?”

A fellow smiled, a second looked blank, a other man seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. Someone emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a place. A couple more men joined the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to express recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She said a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I really could not censure her.