census day

About a week ago, I found a large envelope in purple and white in my mail, sent by the Office for National Statistics. It was the 2011 census for England and Wales. My response was not simply requested, it was required by law. Strong words, but what is the census?

Turns out our Queen counts her subjects (and the scum that floats about the nation) every ten years in a massive statistical effort that goes back to 1801, a 210-year tradition of comprehensive data gleaning that was disrupted only once, in 1941, when the United Kingdom needed more for its survival and prosperity than numbers. These days, when wars are fought elsewhere and battles are distant, the numbers are back, which is why I have a 32-page booklet with lots of blank fields lying on the table in front of me.

Before I get to answer the questions, I have what the creators of the census think are my questions answered. And so it says that "taking part in the census is very important and it's also compulsory." There are rewards for compliance and fines for defiance. The fines can reach £1000. The rewards are less tangible. Information gathered in the census "is used to help plan and fund services for your community – services like transport, education and health," proclaims the form.

Since the Wall fell in '89, I don't have issues with authority, and I'd be perfectly happy to complete the census questionnaire in all honesty, but there are some details that bug me. First is the painful self-conscious seriousness of the undertaking. The questionnaire is mailed to all addresses in England and Wales that the government can get a hold of including holiday homes. Consequently, the first question of "Who usually lives here?" has the option "No one", which should be the end but isn't. You still have to go and fill in five questions regarding overnight visitors and the type of home.

Then there is the intrusiveness. The census asks for my name, address and date of birth. The last two bits of data I'm happy to divulge. After all knowing where people live and what the age distribution in the country is is the whole point of the census. But why the full name? I can see now benefit to that. It's not as if the driver is going to greet me by name the next time I catch the bus. So I'm still torn between filling this in and using the pseudonym the form was sent to, The Occupier.

What I will fill in for sure is the question regarding religious affiliation (the only voluntary question). I'll reveal (and you're the first to find out) that I belong to the country's fourth biggest religion, which, as the 2001 census told us, is Jediism, with 0.7% of population claiming adherence. That's more than there are Sikhs, Buddhists and Jews. Hindus and Muslims are not much ahead, and with all the media coverage the Jediism phenomenon has triggered in the run-up to the census, it might very well overtake these two.

After name, address and religion, only one mystery remains. This is questions 17. The questionnaire informs unapologetically that "This question is intentionally left blank." In the Principality of Wales, which shares the census form with England, questions 17 is used to ask about the respondent's proficiency of Welsh. Couldn't the makers have come up with question specific to England, like "Which country to do you prefer to kick England out of the World Cup next time around?" or, relevant for those living in London, "Have you ever met an English person?" Alas, there is only a gaping hole where there should be another intrusive question.

Today is the 27th of March, census day. I've ticked my boxes, declared my affiliations and revealed more personal information than I've handed over to Google over the years. From Google I get email, a blog, a search engine and a photo database for my mom. From the government I get a health service, public transport, road works, street lights and crime prevention in the right places. All things considered, it might not be a bad deal.