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Shortly before Christmas, I had an unusual incident. I believe it proved instructive. This happened at a meeting of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't important. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be relevant.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine cuisine, good drink and remarkably amusing tales about teeth. As expected, the point came for visits to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, looked to be away a significant period. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for empathy from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I seen women standing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Beyond the annoyance of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a hint of embarrassment about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to endure. It was truly bracing to have a sample of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the door while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our phones.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire form of small talk here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have little experience. Women, I presume, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s only at the sinks later that chat tends to begin.

Were I a lady, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or quiet. If I was obliged, time and again, to queue in a common queue only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d express my fury like nobody’s business at the utter unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Brotherly Chat in the Queue

During my time in my line, I tried to initiate some male camaraderie going about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something along the lines of: “Well, this is an irksome change, right lads?”

One person grinned, a second seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. For the most part, stillness prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a position. Another two men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Interaction

A female glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express acknowledgement of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I might give you the time of day.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really could not blame her.