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Just before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dentists, but it's not pertinent. The attending party were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The venue was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A lost session was shared by the group. Good fare, good libations and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. As expected, the time came for trips to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what awaited me but a lengthy line for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women walk straight through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly with others with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have little experience. Females, I presume, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that intra-queue interaction is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a public line merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A valuable benchmark for any civilised community would be balanced access in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an disagreeable difference, doesn’t it boys?”

One person smiled, a second seemed nonplussed, a third appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, quiet reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The group moved forward a spot. Another two men joined the end of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the adjacent restroom, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to convey acknowledgement of this reversed situation. She remarked: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you bastard. Return when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered nothing. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly wouldn’t blame her.