My beloved - my husband, not the dog, - had some issue with last week's column about homework and had a go at me for only telling one side of the story. I wanted to tell him that's why it's called an opinion column, sweetheart, that's why I get paid the big bucks, to have an opinion on something (even though sometimes, I'll admit, dear reader, I might not necessarily agree with my own opinion) not to be all wishy washy and present both sides of an argument. That's for news reporters. Isn't it?

But I digress. He started to talk about how homework is valuable, but I tuned out thinking to myself where are you between the hours of four and six buster, and only tuned back in when he started to talk about reading and the benefits of books.

He had me there. I'm not sure, however, if reading counts as homework. The very word, homework, implies that it's work. Reading should always be for pleasure.

Sure it's hard to convince a nine-year-old boy, one who finds reading quite hard work in itself, that if he stuck at it he might actually end up getting some enjoyment out of it. And when it's required, doesn't that somehow defeat the purpose?

I'd love nothing more for the kids to come home after school, once they've devoured the freshly baked chocolate chip biscuits and downed the ice-cold glass of milk, to go and lose themselves in a book. But sometimes homework, and all those other extra-curricular things, if we're being honest, just get in the way. Who has time to read?

Reading seems so self-indulgent. Imagine, 20 minutes, which is the minimum allotted time each night, all to yourself. I can't remember the last time that happened.

Well, I can, and I must do something about my television addiction. I could read for 60 minutes instead of watching Real Housewives of the OC (dreaming, as I do, that the OC stands for O'Connor and there's a film crew at my door ready to make a series about my terribly glamorous life) if I chose to.

But when I'm watching television I can multi-task. Fold socks, plan dinners, cook dinners even. I've never been able to read and do something else at the same time. What a lark that whole reading while breastfeeding idea was.

Doing nothing but one thing for any length of time makes me feel guilty. OK, I can sleep and do nothing else and not feel guilty. But only for about six hours.

I've become quite adept at multi-tasking, and, yes, I know the research suggests that's not necessarily a good thing. I should focus. Focus, schmocus. It feels good when you can do five things at once.

For example, while I've been writing this column, I've maintained a Twitter conversation about glue ear, ordered a few groceries, paid a speeding fine, and sent a text to my husband just to say I love you.

OK, you may have picked up the sense of distraction in this column - what did I start writing about? - but that's how I function. In a state of permanent distractedness. From the moment I wake up to the moment I force myself to sleep, there's a b-zillion things happening in my brain. Not all of them useful. Not all of them useless either.

I pride myself, though, on being able to keep those b-zillion things pretty well organised. There's not a lot that gets past me really. My kids never miss an appointment, bills get paid on time, dinner is always on the table, and I haven't missed a deadline at work since Might and Power won the Melbourne Cup back in 1997.

I wonder then, and I'm really going to concentrate on this question for the next five minutes, why it is I feel so guilty when I decide to read? I hide it, like an alcoholic might hide a vodka bottle, sneaking off to the toilet, for example, or some other quiet room in the house to be alone with my fix. I long for times where I can sit in peace for an hour or so, things like hairdressers' appointments (rare), long flights (even rarer) or even to just snatch a few moments at the traffic lights before the rude bastard behind you honks his horn.

But in saying that I've realised that these moments are all still multi-tasking. That's rather sad really.

I vow, with you as my witness, to follow the lead of my children's homework requirements, and read for at least 20 minutes a day. While doing nothing else.

I shall go to bed 20 minutes earlier - no point saying I will wake up 20 minutes earlier because I won't - or I shall sit us all down - the kids and me that is, remember, beloved isn't at home at homework time - and instigate ''we're all reading for 20 minutes, now shush up and read, time'', or ''I'll not cook dinner for a week and read instead'' (now there's an idea).

I've actually got a big pile of books just waiting. Meg Mason's Say It Again in a Nice Voice, Maria Semple's Where'd You Go, Bernadette, Vince Flynn's Memorial Day,Hungry? The innocent recipe book for filling your family with good stuff which I found on sale and highly recommend - and yes, cookbooks count as reading too. My daughter and I have just started Little House in the Big Woods and have the whole boxed set to get through, and I found some old The Hardy Boys adventures for my son (and don't get me started on the disappointment I felt when I realised the beloved was not as cool as Frank or Joe - almost as big as the disappointment I felt when I realised he had nothing to do with the wine company either).

But is that multi-tasking? Reading to the kids? Probably, knocking over quality time, homework, and cuddles all in the one hit. If it is, who cares, that's the most pleasurable guilt of all.

Twitter: @karenhardyCT