There was the struggle to make chitchat, a whiff of humiliation – and a sobering recognition of what women have to put up with

I had an unusual experience just before Christmas. I think it did me good. This was at a gathering of some old friends of mine, a group of dentists as it happens, but’s that’s not relevant. The assembled were all blokes, which is relevant. This was at a pub/restaurant that was doing a roaring trade. A lost afternoon was had by all. Nice food, nice drink and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about teeth. Naturally enough, the time came for visits to the gents. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this might have been so, but when it came to my turn all became clear. I turned the corner, and what should I find but a long queue for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This wasn’t a world any of us in this queue recognised.

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect sympathy from any woman here. I am obviously aware that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. How many times have I seen women standing in a queue while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing? Apart from the inconvenience of having to queue to use a convenience, there’s a whiff of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men generally don’t have to wait for. It was decidedly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the other sex breeze through the door while I was forced to stand solemnly in line with my fellow fellas, angling away at whatever we had in our pockets and consulting our phones.

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Women, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, exchanging pleasantries and an interesting observation or two. On this I’ve consulted some women of my acquaintance. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is limited to the odd eye roll and: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A colleague told me it’s only at the washbasins afterwards that conversation tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or silence. If I was forced, time and again, to stand in a public line merely for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the sheer injustice of it. A useful metric for any civilised society would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m seeking out research on this.

Back in my queue, I tried to get some brotherly banter going about this novel situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and said something along the lines of: “Well, this makes an unpleasant change, doesn’t it lads?” Someone smiled, someone else looked blank, a third looked sheepish. Another shook his head as if this was yet another manifestation of broken Britain, woke madness etc. Otherwise, silence reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a place. Two more men joined the back of it. I sighed.

A woman wafted out of the adjacent facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was all right for some. I grinned bashfully at her, trying to communicate acknowledgement of this topsy-turvy scenario. She said: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you bastard. Come back when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I might give you the time of day.” Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I really wouldn’t blame her.

• Adrian Chiles is a writer, broadcaster and a Guardian columnist