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Shortly before the festive season, I experienced an unusual episode. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but that’s not pertinent. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Fine food, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about oral health. Naturally, the moment arrived for excursions to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this could be, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

An Experience of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for ladies, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is the norm. Repeatedly have I witnessed women standing in a row while men in the same establishment have to do the opposite?

In addition to the hassle of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal familiarity. Women, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my acquaintance. The prevailing view is that queue-based interaction is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s only at the hand-washing stations later that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either niceties or quiet. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Queue

Back in my queue, I attempted to spark some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of: “So, this is an disagreeable change, isn't it chaps?”

One person chuckled, someone else looked blank, a third individual looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further example of modern woes, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you jerk. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.