THERE we were, a husband and wife enjoying a pre-Valentine evening in a country pub restaurant and reminiscing about our courting days, when we realised we were having to speak louder to be heard over the voices of several very noisy and very dull diners nearby. Was it just a coincidence they happened to be men?

To the right of us was a table of three couples. The three middle-aged gents were guffawing over a golfing incident, which seemed to involve "Ted", a caddy and a bunker (although it was hard to pick up much detail and was obviously one of those "you had to be there" moments) while the woman quietly got on with their chicken liver p t.

To the left of us was a table of four, three of whom were silent while the fourth launched into a tedious ramble about how we'll soon all be able to fly to Jupiter. Remarkably, he kept on track throughout all three courses, fuelled by gallons of red wine.

"There's no doubt it will be possible, because science is developing at such a rapid pace," he droned. "They've got the technology to build rockets that can go faster than we can even imagine. The danger is black holes..."

Oh, if only we'd had one to sling him in. While Space Bore continued onwards and upwards, one of the Golf Bores turned into I've Done Well With My Shares Bore.

"Yes, bit of luck, really," began the man in the tweed jacket. "But I consulted my financial advisor and he said I should hold onto them because they're a better investment than sticking money in the building society.

"And then, of course, there was all that worry about the crash in the Far East and rising interest rates. But they picked up again and are doing better than George's because he left his in Marks and Spencer..."

Still, not a peep from the ladies. By this time my husband and I had given up trying to have an intimate conversation and were instead pitying the poor spouses of those men. How could they stand listening to such endless drivel? For the sake of humanity, shouldn't they just stand up and shout, "Shut up. You're boring the knickers off me."

And then something odd happened. There was a lull in conversation to our night, and a lone female voice piped up: "Men need women more than women need men." If the conversation hadn't already stopped, it would have been a conversation stopper.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, one of the Golf Bores, who clearly couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer, attempted a feeble joke. "I wish someone had told me that years ago," he said, which made his pals laugh in an unconvincing manner.

Then the table to the left of us went quiet. Was it time for a cutting statement from a female member of the party? There was no need. The Space Bore had drunk himself into oblivion.

Something positive has come out of this experience. My husband has vowed never again to talk to me about cars.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.