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In the run-up to the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who happen to be tooth doctors, but it's not important. The assembled crowd were solely men, which proves to be significant.

A Novel Predicament

The establishment was a tavern doing a roaring trade. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, good libations and remarkably humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the moment arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it came to me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the gents'. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue knew.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, needing to line up to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I observed women standing in a queue while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the annoyance of standing in line to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, awaiting something that men typically don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, observing the women breeze through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my mates, angling away at something we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Genre of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant experience. Females, I presume, have become adept to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The consensus is that queue-based interaction is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the phrase: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations subsequently that conversation tends to break out.

Were I a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to wait in a shared procession only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the utter injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised community would be equal waiting times in wee waiting times. I’m researching research on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Line

During my time in my line, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie flowing about this unprecedented situation of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an irksome variation, isn't it boys?”

A fellow chuckled, a second looked blank, a third seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was one more example of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Aside from that, silence prevailed. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a spot. A couple more men joined the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Interaction

A female glided out of the next-door restroom, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I may give you the time.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really wouldn’t blame her.