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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This happened at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not pertinent. The attending crowd were all blokes, which turns out to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant enjoying a roaring trade. A forgotten afternoon was had by all. Nice cuisine, nice libations and surprisingly humorous anecdotes about teeth. Naturally, the point dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't ponder the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to line up dutifully in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d refrain from on either small talk or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a public line only for the chance to relieve myself, I’d vent my spleen like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A valuable measure for any civilised society would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie flowing about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something along the lines of: “Well, this is an unpleasant difference, right chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. An individual emerged, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a position. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the neighbouring restroom, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

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