THERE IS a new book out by a fellow called Darian Leader, called Why Do Women Write More Letters than They Post? (Faber & Faber, £9.99 in UK). The title is a teaser: if a woman writes a letter, but doesn't post it, has she ever had any intention of sending it (at all)?

The question of mere forgetfulness doesn't come into it. The possibility exciting Mr Leader's imagination is that such letters are never meant to be read by the woman's friends or lovers or relations, but are unconsciously addressed to something or someone beyond - well, beyond the nominal addressee, I suppose.

I realise some people are inspired by this sort of notion, intrigued by the supposed psycho spiritual mysteries implied therein, and I imagine the odd man might even buy the book in the insanely optimistic hope of finally understanding just one thing, however trivial, about the nature of women.

Well, not me. I find such ideas of scant interest. Of course I am interested in the nature of women, just as I am in the Milky Way and Riemannian geometry and all things remote and mysterious. But I am not interested in the beyond, much less in what lies, or tells truth, beyond the beyond. We will find out all about that in good time is the way I look at it.

I will let you know why in a minute, but this unposted letter notion reminds me of the army of the late Duke of Atholl, who passed away very recently. Because of an honour awarded by Queen Victoria, he was the only man in Britain permitted to have a private army. The royal licence permitted the Atholl Highlanders to provide four companies of 90 men, plus pipes and drums.

But an army can not really be said to exist until it is in action.

The late Duke's army therefore resembles in its essence one of these addressed but unposted letters. It is directed at the beyond and has no existence, in the real meaning of the word, until "posted", i.e. sent into action.

So it is with other little used armies. The rehearsals of the Irish Army, for example, essentially reflect internal longings. They are psychological gearings for warfare, and only take an external form occasionally in the glen of Aherlow, plus, when the Air Corps is involved, on the lands of Gormanston Aerodrome and the air and sea area contained within a circle having a radius of 3NM (5.4KM) centred on the Aerodrome with an additional area contained within the segment centred on the aerodrome and bearing of 0 15 T, through Mosney Railway Station and 106, through Gormanston Railway Station sea ward for the distance of 10NM (16.3 KM), all to a height of 40,000 feet: the DANGER AREA.

This is no mere conceit meant to raise spirits in this unravelling Spring (beginning with doom in the bulb, as Dylan would say - drink talking, need I add), a glow to the skin, a wry smile to the face and a cheekily attractive glint to the eyes. No. It is serious stuff. It has connotations and reverberations beyond the literal.

Heaven help me but before finding this "topic" I was tempted - yes, sorely - to enter our own Irish Times Media Page competition and was all ready to put down on paper a dialogue between Biddy and Miley of Glenroe as they await the tax inspector.

Here are the only lines I got written.

Biddy: Miley! `Tis comin' up the road he is, and us still without verifiable details regarding total pay, I mean gross pay less any superannuation contributions allowable for income tax purposes in above years including pay in respect of previous employments if any in above years taken into account in arriving at the tax figure arrived at by me stroke us not to mention exemption threshold and marginal relief in respect of the above.

Miley: What's income tax?

That's as far as I got and as you can see it is not very promising. But the remote yet frightening prospect of winning the prize, a walk on part in the series, held me back. Glenroe is a good programme but the thought of appearing even in a walk on role is unnerving. I have not felt "at home" in a rural environment, never mind a farm setting, for many years, and the fact would be all too obvious to the viewer, no matter how appropriate the garb provided. Even "walking on", I would be sure to get it all wrong. Urban gloss, particularly that imparted by the capital city, is as obvious to rural dwellers as luminous paint on a cowshed, and I would be only a laughing stock.