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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an unusual situation. I think it did me good. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who are incidentally dental professionals, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The venue was a pub/restaurant experiencing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, fine drink and surprisingly humorous tales about teeth. Naturally, the point came for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it was my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my mates, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in small talk and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some women of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to start up.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a shared procession only for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced society would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something like: “So, this represents an unpleasant change, isn't it boys?”

Someone chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, woke madness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. A man emerged, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men joined the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A lady wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, endeavouring to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not fault her.