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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an remarkable situation. I believe it was beneficial for me. This happened at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not relevant. The assembled party were solely men, which turns out to be key.

A Strange Predicament

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was shared by the group. Good fare, nice libations and unexpectedly humorous tales about teeth. As expected, the point came for excursions to the men's room. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became my turn, the mystery was solved.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. An empty space for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I am not asking for pity from any woman here. I am obviously cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is an everyday occurrence. How many times have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of humiliation about lingering there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex breeze through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my companions, angling away at anything we had in our trouser pockets and checking our handsets.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Chitchat

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – restroom waiting talk – of which men have scant familiarity. Women, I presume, have learned to be quite proficient at it, sharing polite remarks and an notable observation or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that queue-based communication is confined to the odd exasperated look and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague mentioned it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that chat tends to start up.

Were I a woman, I’d not spend a moment on both niceties or silence. If I was compelled, time and again, to queue in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the utter inequity of it. A handy metric for any civilised culture would be equal waiting times in wee lining-up periods. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Back in my wait, I attempted to spark some male camaraderie flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “So, this represents an unpleasant change, right chaps?”

One person grinned, a second appeared confused, a other man looked sheepish. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Aside from that, quiet prevailed. Someone came out, adjusting his clothing. The line shuffled up a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I exhaled.

A Silent Moment

A woman glided out of the adjacent restroom, all fresh and unhurried. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled apologetically at her, attempting to convey recognition of this upside-down state of affairs. She said: “Don't come to me for solidarity, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this a hundred more times and then I may give you the courtesy.”

Actually, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.