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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not relevant. The assembled group were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a pub/restaurant enjoying a excellent custom. A wasted afternoon was had by all. Nice cuisine, fine drink and remarkably entertaining tales about dentistry. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it became me next, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate pity from any female reader here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women waiting in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a entire conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the pure inequity of it. A handy measure for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in toilet lining-up periods. I’m looking for research on this.

Comradely Chat in the Procession

Returning to my wait, I tried to spark some friendly chat flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it chaps?”

Someone smiled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, silence ensued. A man emerged, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a place. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A woman emerged out of the adjacent facility, all fresh and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, trying to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. Her response was: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly would not blame her.