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Shortly before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a meeting of some old friends, who happen to be tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The attending party were solely men, which turns out to be significant.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The establishment was a bar and eatery enjoying a excellent custom. A lost afternoon was had by all. Fine fare, nice libations and surprisingly entertaining tales about oral health. As expected, the point arrived for visits to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't ponder why this might have been, but when it came to my turn, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

To be perfectly clear, I neither court nor expect pity from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a convenience is an everyday occurrence. On countless occasions have I seen women standing in a row while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was decidedly bracing to have a sample of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the portal while I was compelled to stand solemnly with others with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our jackets and consulting our handsets.

The Practice of Lavatory Queue Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that queue-based communication is confined to the occasional weary glance and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate told me it’s merely at the sinks subsequently that chat tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d refrain from on both niceties or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to stand in a common queue only for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like there was no tomorrow at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any advanced culture would be gender parity in urination queue durations. I’m seeking out data on this.

Comradely Interaction in the Procession

During my time in my queue, I endeavoured to get some male camaraderie going about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something like: “Ah, this is an unpleasant difference, isn't it boys?”

One person grinned, a second appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. Yet another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of modern woes, woke madness etc. For the most part, silence ensued. Someone came out, zipping up. The line advanced a place. Another two men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the next-door facility, all clean and at ease. It was just fine for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this on a regular basis and only then I might give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.