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Just before Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a gathering of some old friends, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The assembled group were solely men, which turns out to be relevant.

A Novel Scenario

The establishment was a bar and eatery experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good food, nice libations and surprisingly amusing stories about teeth. As expected, the time arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn't contemplate the reason this was, but when it became my go, all became clear.

I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I am not asking for pity from any female reader here. I am acutely aware that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do no such thing?

In addition to the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was truly sobering to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the women breeze through the door while I was obliged to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

The Genre of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a complete conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Females, I imagine, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting comment or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is limited to the rare weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Had I been a woman, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a common queue merely for the chance to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable measure for any modern culture would be gender parity in urination waiting times. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my queue, I tried to initiate some friendly chat going about this new situation of ours. I sighed a bit, gave a weary look and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

Someone smiled, someone else seemed nonplussed, a third seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness ensued. A man exited, adjusting his clothing. The group advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Moment

A female wafted out of the neighbouring toilet, all fragrant and relaxed. It was just fine for some. I beamed bashfully at her, attempting to express acknowledgement of this reversed state of affairs. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the time of day.”

Truthfully, she didn’t say that. She uttered anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not blame her.