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In the run-up to the holidays, I encountered an remarkable episode. I believe it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The present party were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern experiencing a excellent custom. A wasted session was had by all. Good food, nice beverages and surprisingly entertaining stories about dentistry. As expected, the moment dawned for trips to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, seemed to be absent a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this could be, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, 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 men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of Common Reality

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the identical venue have to do the opposite?

Apart from the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of indignity about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, observing the women walk straight through the portal while I was obliged to stand solemnly in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have minimal experience. Females, I surmise, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging comment or two.

On this I’ve asked some female friends of my circle. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is restricted to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Forget this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague informed me it’s only at the sinks afterwards that discussion tends to begin.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was forced, time and again, to queue in a public line merely for the chance to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy benchmark for any advanced society would be gender parity in toilet waiting times. I’m researching studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

Returning to my line, I endeavoured to spark some male camaraderie going about this novel state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something along the lines of: “Ah, this makes an irksome change, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone chuckled, another appeared confused, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The group shuffled up a place. A couple more men entered the end of it. I sighed.

An Unspoken Exchange

A female glided out of the next-door toilet, all clean and relaxed. It was all right for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, trying to communicate an understanding of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve experienced this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She uttered a word. But I believe that’s what she was feeling. And I really wouldn’t blame her.