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Shortly before Christmas, I had an extraordinary incident. I think it proved instructive. This took place at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but it's not relevant. The present group were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a roaring trade. A wasted session was shared by the group. Nice cuisine, fine drink and remarkably entertaining stories about oral health. As expected, the time arrived for trips to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, looked to be absent a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it came to my go, the mystery was solved.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me 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 not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

An Experience of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for women, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do the opposite?

Beyond the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the opposite gender glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little knowledge. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, exchanging small talk and an interesting observation or two.

About this topic I’ve asked some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession only for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any advanced culture would be gender parity in wee queue durations. I’m seeking out research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Procession

Returning to my queue, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and said something like: “So, this represents an irksome difference, right lads?”

One person grinned, another seemed nonplussed, a third individual looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another manifestation of a failing society, woke madness etc. Otherwise, quiet ensued. Someone emerged, fastening his trousers. The line advanced a place. A couple more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the next-door facility, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, trying to express an understanding of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you jerk. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was thinking. And I truly wouldn’t censure her.