Five years ago, by the lunch break of the first day in my new job, it hit me: I was pretty much the only straight man in an office that was home to scores of smart, attractive and stimulating women.

On that watershed morning five years ago, the general manager (female -just like the president, the CEO and creative director) introduced me to the rest of the staff. I pinched myself. What sort of heroic volunteer work had I done in a previous life to deserve this workplace?

For me, a tinder-the-table misogynist disconcerted by the superiority of women, it was like hitting the jackpot. I could observe (and safely deal with) "the ladies" without fear of reprisal. Giddy, I broke the news to my male friends.

The ratio of women-to-men in my new office, I exulted, was approximately 9.4:1. My guy friends patted me on the back and slapped me earnest high-fives.

There were four other men employed aside from me, but one was 51 years old and unctuous, and the rest didn't fool anyone by remaining in the closet (barely navel-length and too tight-fitting short-sleeved polo shirts were way too suspicious).

Emboldened by the frat boy support of my male friends, I scrutinised my female colleagues as if I had some constitutional right to adjudicate on their looks and demeanour. Then, about one month into my tenure, something unexpected happened: I stopped ogling and started listening to women talk to each other. And, box did they ever talk.

I noticed that the "hi" and "good morning" greetings sounded goofier - but somehow more honest and mellifluous - than the grunted salutations of men. Furthermore, the compliments (and to be fair, the relentless fault-finding) that escaped their lips, no matter how tainted, were at least expressed. Women are simply more amusing because of this irresistible openness. Take the cliché bad-hair-day scenario: while men mercilessly goad the casualty until everyone in the office doubles tip in laughter at his expense, the dynamics in a woman-dominated office are different. A concerned friend, while struggling to rein in the giggles, will hint at the calamity. The curling iron victim then spends the rest of the day spouting self-deprecating quips about her BHD in between genuine groans of woe. Between gentle jibes, her friends will offer support and BHD advice throughout the day. It's sweet funny and instructive stuff.

I overheard them fret over not just bad-hair days, but also about dry skin, toxic friends' excess weight and boyfriend troubles with such evolved candour. I tried to match their frankness but couldn't. I simply was not wired that way. Few men are I know now.

This openness is no small matter, and it probably embraces some important insight that's out of my depth, but I'll try to put some sense and order into it anyway. We men put tip many more impenetrable facades over our lifetime than women do; sometimes I feel like the face I present to the world is a grainy newsreel of self-conscious interpretations of previous successes and failures. Watching women, in startling contrast, is like watching breaking news, which is not only more entertaining, but also a lot more real.

I won't even attempt to fathom why women in the workplace have innate virtues that trump the work ethic of men - everyone already knows they habitually work harder, handle pressure better and typically sweat over the details more tenaciously than we do. Unavoidably, there are flaws associated with their heroic vulnerability, like a surplus of anxiety, hypersensitivity, insecurity and undercurrents of resentment. But who's couching? Not me. I'm still listening.