THIS parallel universe of The Golfer which I mentioned in tile last dispatch is not without its horrors. A true story: last week, the telephone rang deep in the middle of the night, say about half three. It turned out to be a friend in the States who, judging by his timing, has a numeracy problem. Anyway, as I put the receiver to my ear, I was certain, in my twilight state, that the voice on the other end said: "Golf." Honest.

But at least I have a friend left in the States, for I fear that by the end of this summer's exercise there will be few enough of them on the ground around these parts. And each of them will be able to represent Ireland in any international Boring competition.

We stand in the pub, pints to hand, and my colleagues still in the Real World discuss with an easy intelligence the general election, the hopes for real peace in the North, the handover of Hong Kong. And I stand quietly and nod my head knowingly and sympathetically, as, all the while, in my mind's eye I see only the soul-stirring image of a four-iron sweeping gracefully through a pristine Maxfli. Sick.

But that's what I'm reduced to - fantasy. For, as yet, I have failed miserably to transfer my new golf game (which someone prematurely described as having "entered another, much loftier plane. I'm striking the ball with an authority I could never have imagined.") into the heat of competition.

Why have I failed? Well, pressure, of course. What pressure? I'll tell you what pressure: the pressure of trying to cut 14 shots off your genuine handicap while the whole world, his brother and his dog is watching. Oh yes, snigger if you like.

In the past three weeks I have played in four competitions, and the one word which springs most readily to mind is humiliation. In the second outing, at Trim, I was approached on the first tee box by Greg Allen, of RTE fame, a nice enough chap even if he does play off single figures. We had a chat, Greg inspected my flash, new metal woods, and I then sent my three-wood tee-shot sailing high and straight - over the boundary wall and onto the road.

Obviously, I'm being too hard on myself, expecting miracles when I should relax and simply content myself with the knowledge that I have made enormous progress, that my game is of another level entirely from that of a mere seven weeks ago. Unfortunately, the only sort of evidence I can produce here to substantiate that claim is how I score in competitions, and, for the most part, that doesn't bear thinking about. Ironically, Trim was the best example: I was playing off 19, was out on six holes, and yet came in with 31 points.

My short game, after all that popping about with the sandwedge, is unrecognisable from its predecessor. Put anything between a five-iron and a putter in my hand and I play with remarkable consistency - not brilliant, just consistent.

I'd like to think I can play to about 14, but, if I'm honest, I'm playing to about 18 these days, still a fine improvement from the 24th of March. But it's not enough.

What has brought about this change? Well, if I do say so myself, much is down to the work I've put into it. I play or practise every day.

But there's more to it, of course, and his name is Leonard Owens, the professional out at Royal Dublin. Leonard, in his quiet, patient way, has been tweeking with my swing, a nip here, a tuck there. Nothing radical. I'm not sure if that's because my swing didn't need a thorough overhaul, or whether that's just Leonard's way. Whatever, it's working for me.

Last week, we began by hitting a few six-irons. I was hitting them reasonably enough, but with a consistent fade. You could live with a fade, but this particular one quickly transforms into a wicked slice when I stand on a tee box with a wood in my hand. So my homework for this week was to work on the transfer of weight and to get a bit more action from the bottom hand into the shot, i.e., learn to hit a wicked hook. I haven't really managed it.

After our initial session, Leonard would have put my chances of getting down to 10 on a par with those of Benjamin Netanyahu getting elected president of Iran. Now, Leonard thinks 15 is a realistic target, and the odds on 10 have come in to simply an impossibility. Not bad, eh?

Now all Leonard has to do is teach me to hit a ball off a tee peg.