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Just before Christmas, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The attending crowd were exclusively male, which is significant.

A Strange Predicament

The venue was a bar and eatery doing a roaring trade. A forgotten daytime was had by all. Good food, good drink and surprisingly entertaining tales about oral health. Naturally, the moment came for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my turn, the mystery was solved.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously cognizant that, for females, needing to line up to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my fellow fellas, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our phones.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Women, I imagine, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that within-the-line communication is limited to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that discussion tends to break out.

Had I been a lady, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was compelled, repeatedly, to wait in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A useful metric for any advanced society would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m looking for data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

Back in my wait, I attempted to get some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I sighed a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this makes an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it lads?”

Someone grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man exited, fastening his trousers. The queue shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring toilet, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed apologetically at her, endeavouring to convey recognition of this upside-down situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say nothing. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly wouldn’t blame her.