Ever feel you?re being bullied? That Big Brother is watching, even though the front door is firmly shut? The moment a fat envelope plopped through my letterbox, I felt aggrieved.
The 2011 Census had arrived, with page after page of mind-numbing questions and boxes to tick. I was about to lob it straight in the bin before I suffered a Grumpy Old Woman tantrum, until I read this ominous message on page one: ?Taking part is compulsory. You may face a fine if you don?t participate or if you supply false information.?
It was from Jil (why not two Ls?) Matheson, National Statistician, who adds: ?Help tomorrow take shape.?
I don?t mind filling in a simple form confirming who I am and who lives in my house.
But this census goes way beyond that. Apart from needing to know my qualifications, where I was last week, what kind of central heating I have and what religion I am, it also needs to know the exact status of my sexual partnership and who has been visiting lately and whether they stayed the night.
I?m surprised we?re not asked about our bowel movements, flossing regime and whether we prefer Waitrose to Tesco.
How can the simple job of gathering information about the population once every ten years, which started out in 1801 as a single sheet of paper, have morphed into this costly (?480***8201;million and rising) exercise during a period of national financial hardship?
If we can?t afford help for carers, child day-care centres, meals on wheels and libraries, how can we bloody well afford this grandiose census? We are told it?s justified because the information allows the Government to plan grants to local authorities and to decide how much money to allocate for future health care.
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