I was having a quite doze yesterday when there was a ring of the door bell.
By the time I got to the front door, the fecker who rang it was already half way out the gate. I yelled at him but he ignored me and carried on up the lane, but not before I saw that he was from the Census. I don’t know why they have to wear those Dayglo jackets? Are they really that scared of being run down by a train on peoples doorsteps?
Anyhow, I slung a few well chosen words in the general direction of the departing jacket and went about my business.
This morning I was having a well deserved lie-in when the door bell woke me from a lovely dream. It was the fucker from the Census again, waffling on about how I should fill in my census form. He apologised for getting me out of the scratcher, but he didn’t apologise enough.
I don’t hold much truck with censuses [censi? censes? what the fuck is the plural of census anyway?]. As far as I am concerned, they are just a way for Big Brother to glean more private information about us. I am more than a commodity that has to be audited from time to time, and I refuse to be treated like a tin of beans on a supermarket shelf.
I am not going to refuse to fill in the form, but I now have a couple of weeks to come up with some rather inventive replies. I notice for example that they don’t have ‘plane’ as a means of getting to work. That will have to be rectified. I haven’t decided on an occupation yet but it will be somewhere between ‘chicken sexer’ and ‘the bloke who puts the figs in fig rolls’. As for religion? That one is wide open. Jedi? Adorer of the Great Rabbit Pooka? Heh!
When they call to collect my form, I shall let them have it, in more ways than one.
I might even let Dayglo out of the coal hole.