For the second general election running, I have received a letter from my local Fianna Fáil TD apologising for his inability "to meet with you and your neighbours" and attributing this to "the nature of the development in which you live", writes Frank McNally.
The nature of the development in which I live has not changed since 2002. As it was then, it remains a small cul-de-sac, which boasts full vehicular access and can also be approached by a number of footpaths. Following the TD's original slur on the neighbourhood five years ago, I wondered if there was anything we could do to improve accessibility. But short of providing a free shuttle bus service from the end of the road, it escaped me.
It is possible that the TD is still confusing our development with the plethora of apartment complexes that have sprung up in the area over the past decade, most of them fitted with such anti-politician devices as remote-controlled electronic gates.
And yet our cul-de-sac has been here, gate-free, since the late 1960s. It's a bit of a stretch at this stage even to be calling it a "development".
If anything, it is too accessible. The new apartment blocks around us boast all the conveniences of modern living, with one exception: none of them has enough parking spaces for the occupants. So at night-time - "because of the nature of the development in which we live", to paraphrase the TD - the sneaky feckers park in our road instead.
Meanwhile the building boom continues, and the humongous construction site around the corner from us doesn't have enough parking either. Some mornings, we have traffic jams in the cul-de-sac, what with the people who don't live here trying to get out and the builders who don't work here trying to get in. In fairness to the TD, there have been days when - depending on the quality of parking - a bin lorry or oil delivery tank could not enter the road. But unless he was travelling in the Fianna Fáil bus, the TD should have been able to squeeze in.
I know it's probably a mistake to take his letter personally. Indeed, as if dropping a hint as to why I should not, he addresses me as "Dear Resident". Such formality is refreshing in an era when every other mass marketer has a computer programme that not only allows your name to be printed at the top of the letter but also dropped it in at different points of the text too.
By contrast with my TD, for example, the Reader's Digestkeeps writing to me as if to a long-lost friend, even though I have never knowingly encouraged the relationship. Also, at least once a year, someone I have never heard of takes it upon himself to enter me in a prize draw in Spain and then to write saying that I have won €250,000, conditional only on supplying him with the few details about me that he doesn't already have.
But the glaring weakness in the TD's claim about being unable to meet us is that his letter was delivered in person by the postman. Yes, we have a mail-box that he could have put it in anonymously. But ours is a cheerful, extrovert postman. You can often hear him whistling or greeting other neighbours as he comes up the road. So, frequently we open the door and receive his mail by hand.
In fact, he put this to good use during the last postal dispute. While management at An Post relied on getting its argument across in press releases, the postman delivered the workers' message door-to-door, explaining what he and his colleagues were looking for and making the company sound unreasonable by comparison. It's a radical idea, I know. But if people like my TD took to campaigning on the doorsteps in this way, it could revolutionise politics.
All right, I'm being sarcastic. It's just that in the five years since the last election, the information age has spread to every corner of the planet. Google has gone from being a niche product to - as of this week - the world's largest brand.
Among the services it now offers is an aerial view of the development in which I live - photographed from outer space '- showing not only that the road is accessible, but that all the parking spaces are currently taken. Meanwhile the local representative still can't find my house. If only burglars were so easily discouraged.
He has not yet given up, at least. "As your local TD and public representative, I am trying to make contact with you," he writes. And it must be acknowledged that he is probably hampered in his efforts by an out-of-date electoral register. No doubt many of the names on it belong to people who have long since moved, or passed on. Maybe the TD thinks that I too am deceased. Certainly, the phrase "trying to make contact with you" suggests that at least one of us is on the other side.
In the circumstances, however, even his description of himself as my "public representative" seems unnecessarily judgmental. The implication is that I live like a recluse, cut off from the external world - the one in which he represents me - by security gates and intercoms, and whatever. Yes I know we sometimes unfairly accuse politicians of being out of touch with the public. But it's a bit rich when, every five years, they accuse us of being out of touch with them.