IT MUST BE six weeks or so since the evening in question. We dine (or should I now say 'dined') at each other's houses quite frequently. There were usually other guests, often people I - or in turn, they - didn't know.

It had become something of a challenge to find the most interesting complement of guests. It didn't always succeed; on occasions though, the mix of rich food, copious quantities of wine and dynamic personalities combined to make a heady cocktail of conviviality. Some evenings have been so raucously entertaining that one or other of us has visited the other for lunch the next day in order to dissect and re-live the events of the previous evening.

We first met at a dinner party ourselves, about three years ago - one of those dire "do's;" after dinner we were invited to partake in Croatian folk dancing. The three of us hid in the kitchen - that's where the drink was, and the furthest you could get from the Sony music centre with the treble turned up.

"My name's Bill, and Bill's NOT dancing," I said.

"No... God forbid. Rodger. Rodger Parfitt." He was a big man with an earnest look in his eyes. His handshake was fierce. "And this is Kay."

I simply had to escape. There are times in life when no other course of action will suffice. "Do you two fancy making a run for it? I don't live too far from here and there's some beers in the fridge."

We never really looked back after that night. They invited me for dinner a couple of weeks later - left it open for me to take a partner, but I didn't. We just gelled - the three of us. It was as if we had known each other since school.

It tended to be just the three of us for a while, and I'm pleased we did it that way; you get to know people better the less of you there are. I confided in them - told them about my marriage break-up. Didn't realise it at the time but they became my best friends. Rodger seemed down to earth: reliable. Kay was vivacious and at times mischievous. She would try to set me up with some of her single friends, though I never took the bait.

Much the same as with a lover, new friendships are exciting: they're explorations into unknown territory. After a while you can let the protocol slip. At first, it's like performing an agonisingly slow strip-tease; veil by veil you reveal more and more of yourself. When you've been through a divorce, and your so-called friends look the other way and your mother tells you she's ashamed, it does something to you. You bind the real you in thick layers of disguise; you wear another man's cloak.

Perhaps this is too much of a digression, after all, I don't want to go all introspective on you. The point I want to make is that you can't do it on your own. Once you've wrapped yourself in that protective layer, you become stuck; trapped. You can't get out on your own. You need people; you need friends. they don't have to be councillors or anything sanctimonious, just people that you like and respect - people you can trust.

I'm sure they weren't aware that they were doing it, but Rodger and Kay found the seemingly elusive end to the tape that hid the true me. It took some teasing at first, but once the unravelling commenced even I was surprised by some of the things that were unearthed. I'd forgotten I had a sense of humour. We never discussed any of this; it was all spontaneous, like the first time I called in without being invited. It was a Sunday morning, and I found myself rapping at their front door. I can't remember now why I called. I know they seemed genuinely pleased to see me. We had coffee and talked and laughed; they invited me to join them for lunch at the village pub. I didn't get home until one in the morning.

There was reciprocation; a little over a year after first meeting them, Rodger revealed to me his secret passion for dressing in women's clothes. I would never have guessed him to be a transvestite. It was difficult to imagine this dark-haired, muscular man floating around in billowing taffeta, or blue and white gingham from Laura Ashley. At first it was impossible, and yet I felt so warm, that I should be the only person he felt able to tell. I put my arms around him the day he told me.

It's insidious the way friendship creeps up on you: the more you reveal, the stronger the unspoken bonds become. If you start the revealing process too soon though, or you're too open and free with your private world, then the relationship becomes stillborn. You have to creep softly-softly along the tight-rope if you don't want to blow everything. The trouble is: you don't know where the boundaries lie, and once transgressed it's too late.

To return to the fateful night: I'd had stomach ache for most of the evening, the dinner wasn't one of Kay's best, and the other two couples were as snotty and boring as hell. What's needed here, I thought, is something to puncture the overtly rich pomposity of the gathering and make everyone laugh. I could feel my stomach distending under the pressure of wind - leaving me in something of a dilemma. Squeezed tightly against the back wall of the dining room, sandwiched between two odious women, it was impossible to excuse myself to the toilet. If I had tried to slip small ones out quietly that inadvertently squeaked or stank putrid, then I would have felt embarrassed.

Alcohol is never a wise companion when one is deliberating on whether or not to take a gamble: by the same token, an over-generous split-pea starter didn't help matters. I'm not sure that people who do not suffer from flatulence (and I understand that they really do exist) fully appreciate the skill and technique involved in successfully delivering a large trouser trumpet without mishap. This is perhaps not the time (or place) to brag, but it really was a corker. My trousers had sealed tightly against the leather seat squab; I had to slightly raise my behind to get the thing started. Once underway it was a matter of not rushing - to let it have its head in a controlled manner. Only when I was pretty sure there wouldn't be any little accidents did I crescendo the end of a long booming note with a flurry of more traditional raspberry sounding burps.

The look of astonishment on everyone's faces was a sight that will live with me for always. I tried as long as I could to hold a straight face. When it felt impossible to continue the feigned composure any longer I uttered the time-honoured single word apology:

"PARDON," and slid under the table.

We got through the rest of the evening, although my moment failed miserably in its desired effect. I had misjudged the situation. I thought that Rodger and Kay would think it hilarious. I know it was a bit of a risk, but felt we were close enough now to share the lavatorial side of life.

They made it pretty clear how they felt, as though I'd taken a tremendous liberty at their expense.

Thinking about it now: I feel a bit of a fart.

Paul Lathrope