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In the run-up to the festive season, I experienced an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dental professionals, but that’s not relevant. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant experiencing a roaring trade. A forgotten session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, nice libations and unexpectedly amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the time came for excursions to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it came to my go, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering knew.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the annoyance of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of indignity about waiting there, anticipating something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women glide through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in queue with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and scrolling through our mobile devices.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have minimal experience. Ladies, I presume, have developed skills to be rather good at it, sharing small talk and an engaging observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my knowledge. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is limited to the odd weary glance and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A associate informed me it’s merely at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to break out.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, over and over, to queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the pure injustice of it. A valuable benchmark for any advanced community would be balanced access in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Chat in the Line

Returning to my wait, I endeavoured to initiate some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an unpleasant variation, isn't it lads?”

A fellow smiled, another looked blank, a third seemed awkward. A further person shook his head as if this was one more manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. Two more men took a place at the rear of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Interaction

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fresh and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, trying to convey an understanding of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you blighter. Return when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and then I could give you the courtesy.”

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