Public parts

When my boyfriend said he had a surprise for our date last weekend, I didn't expect to find myself looking between the thick, creamy thighs of a complete stranger, and into the fuzz of her nether regions.

I wouldn't say I 'met' her exactly, in the Women's toilet at the Nöel Coward Theatre – where he took me to see the hilarious Avenue Q – but rather I marched forth as an unwitting martyr.

As the first in line, I was destined to expose the robust thirty-something to tens of women during intermission. She'd forgotten to lock the stall door – the one in plain view of the queue – before inexplicably assuming an advanced yoga pose, balanced over the bowl with her pants around her knees, and her hands involved in some sort of terrifying and aggressive undertaking. She didn't look up.

"OK!" I yelled, and let the door fall shut. Its resident contortionist turned the lock.

A series of barely audible peeps escaped the women behind me and in unison they averted their eyes to the floor, the ceiling, their feet. They had the luxury of pretending it didn't happen, or that maybe they'd just arrived and hadn't witnessed this woman poking around her now-public parts. I didn't, because I was still next in line waiting for the toilet. That, and my cheeks were red.

I looked down at my shoes and prayed someone in another stall would emerge before She-Who-Failed-to-Lock-the-Door did.

Apparently, there is a god.