One of the supposed benefits of electronic publication is that it breaks down barriers between writer and reader. Writers are no longer impossibly distant figures, surrounded by the prestige of a large organisation, and able to shelter behind a wall of receptionists and secretaries from their public. They are instead sitting at a computer that can receive messages just as easily as it send them. And so there is nothing to stop a reader from looking at an article and straightaway dashing off a short reply to it. The writer of the article will receive the message, and can reasonably be expected to read it and reply to it. All this is probably true—unless, that is, I happen to be the writer of an article. Then, sadly, most people who take the trouble to write in never receive so much as an acknowledgement, let alone a considered reply.

In the past few weeks, I have sent out perhaps half a dozen articles. Some of them are my usual attacks on the Conservative Party for its uselessness. Another was a more reflective wondering about the state of politics in Ireland. Another was a defence of homosexual adoption. Last night, I sent out a moaning article about how Tony Blair has stolen my pension and therefore wants me to work myself to death to pay whatever inflated gas and Council Tax bills I may still be getting in my sixties. Each of these articles has generated a flood of replies. To the piece of homosexual adoption alone, there were 300 replies, some of them as long as the original article. I have answered perhaps ten of these. Worse, I have unanswered e-mails sitting in a special folder that have been there for a year. There is one from a man who wrote a long and reasonable critique of my last big attack on the Euro. He has given up pestering me for a reply. Another is a thoughtful set of questions about the means of smashing the Enemy Class. I promised him a reply within a few weeks. That was last March, and one has still to be written. There is a brief and friendly note from an old student of mine in Belgium. He sent this in September. To be fair to myself, I only discovered this a week ago in a folder that I seldom visit, but an answer is still on my list of things to do, and is not yet done.

Worse, my friends David and Dana Davis are expecting a second child. David told me this in a brief telephone conversation over a week ago. Have I called back to share fully in their happiness? Certainly not! Have I paid the £16 electricity bill that I should have paid in September, and that is now leading to threats of recovery action? No, but I will try to do so in the next few days. A few months ago, I was proposed by an old university friend for membership of the National Liberal Club. This was a great favour, and I can see many benefits from joining. But, again, I have yet to put a cheque in the post to secure acceptance.

My problem is a combination of idleness and overwork. I do not like to turn away any work that pays. Indeed, I want the money. I think it fair to say that I give value for money. But though I am capable of extreme application—I currently work a twelve hour day - my working habits are basically those of a man with plenty of leisure. If anything can be put off to another day, and does not involve financial loss, it will be put off. I sometimes tell my students, in a lordly, patronising tone, that all correspondence should be dealt with on the day of its arrival. If only I could pay attention to my own lessons!

It is on my list of resolutions for the new year to be more prompt in dealing with correspondence. But there are still six weeks to go before I need to do anything about that. In the meantime, my dear readers—all ten thousand of you—please do not be offended if I never answer your questions and opposing arguments. It is not because I do not respect you, or am unable to answer your knock down arguments. It is simply because I am not very well organised for the workload I have routinely taken on during the past five years.

And while I am on the subject of apologies, let me make a specially humble one to all those poor deluded subscribers to Free Life, which is the hard copy journal from which this newsletter is a spin off. You may have sent the Libertarian Alliance £10 in the reasonable expectation of four or ten issues a year - I never can remember which promise I made and which I withdrew. You have had one issue in the past year, and this has not yet been printed and sent out, though it has been on the Internet in Acrobat format since September. For this latter dereliction, I can shuffle some of the blame onto Brian Micklethwait, who is the printer to the Libertarian Alliance, and whose work habits are rather similar to my own—but I suppose I should have chased him with more dedication than I have. Mea culpa—mea maxima culpa pro otio meo. I am sorry.

There, I have done. I must now go and cook dinner for me and Mrs Gabb—she is one person with whom I dare not be dilatory.