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Shortly before Christmas, I had an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of several mates, who happen to be dental professionals, but this isn't relevant. The present crowd were solely men, which is significant.

A Strange Situation

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Nice food, good drink and unexpectedly humorous stories about oral health. Naturally, the point came for trips to the gents. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, looked to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it became my turn, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Taste of Everyday Life

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for sympathy from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women waiting in a row while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Beyond the hassle of standing in line to use a convenience, there’s a tinge of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was profoundly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in line with my mates, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be quite proficient at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue dialogue is limited to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s exclusively at the washbasins afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Were I a lady, I’d waste no time on either small talk or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a public line simply for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to initiate some brotherly banter started about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and said something like: “Well, this is an irksome change, isn't it lads?”

A fellow smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third individual seemed awkward. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was yet another example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The line advanced a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the adjacent toilet, all clean and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I grinned apologetically at her, attempting to express an understanding of this reversed scenario. She remarked: “Don't come to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I truly could not censure her.