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In the run-up to Christmas, I experienced an extraordinary situation. I think it did me good. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled group were all blokes, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a pub/restaurant doing a roaring trade. A wasted afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Fine fare, nice drink and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. Inevitably, the moment came for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a long time. I didn't contemplate why this could be, but when it was me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Everyday Life

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am fully conscious that, for women, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women queuing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, anticipating something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to have a sample of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the portal while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a complete conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Females, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some female friends of my circle. The prevailing view is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a common queue only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the utter unfairness of it. A handy measure for any civilised community would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I endeavoured to spark some brotherly banter started about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something like: “Well, this represents an irksome change, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, a second looked blank, a third appeared embarrassed. Another shook his head as if this was yet another symptom of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a place. Another two men took a place at the rear of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Interaction

A woman wafted out of the adjacent toilet, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve experienced this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was feeling. And I honestly could not censure her.