I've been wondering all week whether or not I should tell you about something that happened last weekend.

I hesitate, because the few people I've tried relating it to so far have raised their hands to their ears, screaming: "Ugh, ugh. I don't want to hear any more."

They've then said: "Oh, but you must write about it in your column."

So, here goes. Hands at the ready.

Last Saturday my husband and I attended a surprise birthday party in a country pub for one of our 30-year-old friends. Most of the evening was hugely enjoyable - good food, gallons of alcohol and plenty to laugh about. Although I was sober, having offered to chauffeur my husband and our friend Jake to the event, I was in a party mood. I was even fairly tolerant of the daft, laddish banter that seemed to dominate our table.

Towards the end of the evening, I went off to find the ladies' toilet. When I returned, rather a large crowd had gathered around where I'd been sitting.

"What's going on?" I said to a man on the fringe.

"You don't want to know," he said.

"Fair enough," I said and went to sit next to the birthday girl's mother to chat about the eating habits of three-year-olds.

A couple of minutes later, Jake staggered over. "Your husband's throwing up," he said.

'Really?" I said, hoping it was just one of his short coughing fits from laughing too much.

Suddenly the crowd dispersed and my husband emerged with a wet chin.

He really had been sick.

"What's happened?" I asked.

"Sporting injury," he declared.

"What?'

"I was playing burp tennis with Belinda."

"Burp tennis?"

"Yes, you take it in turns to burp. That's all there is to it, as far as I could make out."

At this point, Belinda, a pretty young girl who works in personnel, came over to me to apologise. "I'm so sorry. I warned him that it might happen. The last time I played it, I threw up on my boyfriend."

"Don't worry," I said, giving her a gritted-teeth smile. "I'm sure it wasn't your fault." I then turned to my husband and said with measured delivery: "You've just had four pieces of birthday cake on top of lamb stew and four pints of beer. I know you have a tremendous ability to belch at will. But why didn't you think of the consequences?"

"Not much came up," said my husband, looking down at a couple of damp patches on his trousers. "Just a bit of liquid. I thought I had it under control. But, boy, Belinda. What a girl! If I hadn't already met the woman of my dreams. . ."

We left the pub with me feeling embarrassed beyond belief and my husband feeling cheated of victory.

"And you wonder why we don't get many invitations," I hissed as we got into the car - me in the driving seat, him in the back seat, his trousers in the boot.

"Oh, don't be like this with me," he said, hiccoughing sadly. "It's funny, isn't it?"

I'm not sure. What do you think?