THE TOILET WAR AT 30,000 FEET…

Just as I took the final, emotional bite of my burger—yes, the sacred last bite—we ran towards the gate like contestants in a discount-day black friday race. We were flying to London for a weekend break. My wife, however, looked unusually serious while staring at the boarding pass.

Before I could ask, she declared with full drama, “Six and a half hours. And still no separate toilets for women on planes. Why?”

Now, this is a dangerous moment. A married man knows when to speak and, more importantly, when not to. So I waited until she settled comfortably, started her favourite movie, and her blood pressure returned to normal.

The reality is simple: aircraft don’t have enough space. We barely have room for my knees—forget extra toilets. And the world is slowly moving towards unisex everything anyway.

But the toilet debate didn’t end there. My wife began passionately explaining why men should never be allowed near a ladies’ toilet seat. According to her, men and toilet etiquette are two parallel lines that will never meet.

My reply? “Maybe you just have a little OCD. Try counselling?”

She gave me that look. Instantly, I surrendered: “Yes, yes… you’re absolutely right.”

Then I added, “I have another solution: why can’t airlines keep one separate toilet for men— especially for the handful who treat the toilet seat like a gymnastics beam?”

On our return journey to Bahrain, all I could see was a queue—a long queue near the check-in counter. A queue so long it looked like a movie premiere where the movie is terrible, but the popcorn is free.

We joined the line solely to secure some cabin luggage space. Finally, the airline staff began calling zones. Suddenly, half the passengers realised they were not in the zone they had confidently claimed to be in. People drifted out of the queue like confused sheep searching for their shepherd.

And of course, there are always those brave warriors who try to “negotiate” with the queue by sneaking in from the side. Nothing unites humanity more than the collective anger towards a queue-cutter.

Right now, when your fridge can talk, your watch can tell you to breathe, and your phone unlocks by recognising your mood, I fail to understand one thing:

Why are we still standing in queues like it’s 1984?

Why can’t there be a simple screen that displays:

“Seat 22A, please proceed to the counter.”

You walk in calmly, nobody shoves, nobody pushes, nobody pretends to be sick—and for me, honestly, I can’t stand this anymore!

(The author is the Chairman & Managing Director of The Daily Tribune)