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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an unusual situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The present crowd were solely men, which is key.

A Novel Scenario

The location was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good food, good drink and surprisingly entertaining stories about oral health. Naturally, the time came for trips to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate why this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was profoundly enlightening to have a sample of it myself, observing the other sex walk straight through the door while I was compelled to wait patiently in line with my mates, angling away at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be fairly skilled at it, sharing small talk and an interesting insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is restricted to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced culture would be balanced access in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat started about this novel circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “So, this makes an disagreeable change, right boys?”

A fellow chuckled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, stillness reigned. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men joined the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the next-door toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey an understanding of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Return when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and at that point I could give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really could not censure her.