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In the run-up to Christmas, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who happen to be dentists, but this isn't important. The present crowd were solely men, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Predicament

The establishment was a tavern doing a excellent custom. A lost session was enjoyed by everyone. Good fare, fine beverages and surprisingly amusing tales about teeth. As expected, the point came for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, appeared to be gone a significant period. I didn't contemplate why this might have been, but when it was my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. Not a single person waiting for the ladies' room, but a great long one for the men's. What strange new world was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this gathering recognised.

A Sample of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely conscious that, for ladies, having to queue to use a public toilet is an everyday occurrence. Repeatedly have I witnessed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was profoundly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the portal while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our handsets.

The Art of Toilet Queue Chitchat

There’s a complete form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant experience. Ladies, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve consulted some lady acquaintances of my acquaintance. The consensus is that within-the-line interaction is restricted to the odd eye roll and the comment: “Screw this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s exclusively at the washbasins subsequently that chat tends to start up.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or silence. If I was obliged, over and over, to stand in a common queue simply for the chance to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the sheer unfairness of it. A useful benchmark for any civilised culture would be balanced access in urination waiting times. I’m looking for data on this.

Male Interaction in the Queue

Returning to my line, I tried to initiate some brotherly banter started about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something to the effect of: “Well, this is an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a third seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, silence prevailed. A man emerged, fastening his trousers. The group moved forward a position. Two more men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all clean and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this upside-down scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Come back when you’ve experienced this another hundred times and only then I could give you the time of day.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said anything. But I am convinced that’s what she was feeling. And I really could not censure her.