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Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an unusual incident. I think it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but this isn't relevant. The assembled party were solely men, which is relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Good cuisine, fine libations and remarkably entertaining anecdotes about teeth. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting 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 were accustomed to.

An Experience of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Apart from the inconvenience of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Ladies, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging polite remarks and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a common queue merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the utter injustice of it. A valuable measure for any modern community would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my wait, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this is an unpleasant change, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person smiled, another appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was one more symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. An individual exited, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a place. A couple more men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I really would not fault her.