I CAN see her mouth moving and there's definitely a sound coming out, but I don't have a clue what words are being said.

I am genuinely trying to listen and understand, perchance to join in with the conversation, but it's no use. The Long Suffering Marjorie is listening. I know that because her mouth keeps opening and a sound comes out. But I don't know what she is saying either.

I hopelessly try to stifle a yawn, fighting with the natural urge to open my mouth so nobody notices. I end up looking deranged. The next yawn that comes I'll mask with my hand. They'll never know then.

The LSM and her friend start laughing. I take it as a cue and laugh too to be polite. I hope they weren't laughing at me.

I don't mean to be so bored but I just can't help it and in a way it's my fault. The LSM had arranged a night out with a college pal and I tagged along. My own plans had gone awry and I didn't fancy a Saturday night in on my own.

She warned me I'd be bored, but I wouldn't listen. "I can mix with anyone," I protested. "I'm like a Kenwood Chef."

The LSM said she and her friend -- an otherwise affable girl from Canada -- would be taking shop all night. Dissecting the week's events at college, where they are training to be primary school teachers, discussing the state of the profession and waxing lyrical about education as a whole. Which they did.

I pinned my hopes on some of the male students joining the party, perhaps talk a bit about football, throw in the odd music reference. Even pass comment on some of our female fellow drinkers -- without the LSM hearing of course. But they didn't turn up. The Canadian said most of the class was staying in and revising for a maths exam the following Monday. Perhaps there absence was a good thing.

The LSM and the Canadian wasted no time in getting down to business. The meetings and greetings were quickly disposed of and before I had time to crack my ice-breaking joke about the Canadian nun -- which the LSM had try to warn me from anyway -- they were knee deep in Key Stage 2.

By the time I had returned from the bar armed with drinks (and a Canada Dry -- another gag wasted!) it was as if I didn't exist.

I tried to offer some nuggets of wisdom in a vain bid to join in, but it had no impact. Their conversation fort hold was impregnable no matter how hard I battered on its doors.

By the time I had returned from my second trip to the bar -- my round again! -- I was practically invisible. I purposely took the long way round the pub to try and spark some kind of "where have you been" conversation. But they didn't notice so wrapped up were they in school speak.

It wasn't long after when my mind began to drift.

The LSM had warned me to at least feign interest in her vocation and not embarrass her by looking bored and yawning every five minutes. I do try and pitch in -- no matter how hopeless -- but as the evening draws on, my attention span fades.

I'm thinking about what I could have for my post-pub snack. What time I'll get up in the morning and whether or not I'll clean my car. I really should, it's littered with crisp packets and empty cans of pop which still have a habit of leaking when I negotiate a roundabout. The inside windows could do with a clean too to combat the glare of an early morning sun on the way to work. I think about things I had not thought about for a while and find myself smiling and even gently laughing. Nobody notices.

Every now and again my thoughts are punctured by reality. The LSM might nudge me to fulfil my bar duties or the pair laugh at an in-gag (probably about chalkboards or something) and I laugh too. To be polite.

I make an honest effort to concentrate on what they are saying, so I can genuinely join in. But before long I'm thinking what team to field when I next take up my virtual onslaught to conquer a virtual Europe on Fifa 2001 on the PlayStation 2.

The pair start laughing again. I laugh too....