You’re welcome. By all means, send your best wishes by card, email or carrier pigeon but please, no flowers. After all, it truly was my pleasure. In fact, you might even say it was my duty. The weight of personal obligation aside, do spare me a thought when the next school, hospital or sporting stadium pops up in your neck of the woods. For I have done my part to make all these things happen. Granted, mine is a modest contribution, but without it you might have had to settle for a cinder-block bus shelter and a give-way sign. That’s right: I have completed the Census.
You’re welcome. By all means, send your best wishes by card, email or carrier pigeon but please, no flowers. After all, it truly was my pleasure. In fact, you might even say it was my duty. The weight of personal obligation aside, do spare me a thought when the next school, hospital or sporting stadium pops up in your neck of the woods. For I have done my part to make all these things happen. Granted, mine is a modest contribution, but without it you might have had to settle for a cinder-block bus shelter and a give-way sign. That’s right: I have completed the Census.
As a highly connected, super-charged bona fide digital citizen of the twenty first century, I completed my Census online, albeit about three weeks after it was originally scheduled. After all, Census night did not go entirely to plan this time. Having said that, the sheer glee with which some people celebrated this slight technical hitch was, I feel, bordering on ungracious. Indeed, not since the residents of Munchkinland reacted to seeing the Wicked Witch of the East get totally mangled by an errant farmhouse that fell out of the sky by singing ‘Ding Dong the Witch is Dead’ have we seen such a display of malevolent delight.
To all those naysayers, I say ‘so what?’ So what if on the big night the webpage fell over quicker than an elephant on an ice rink? That should not detract from the unmitigated glory that is Census night. The fact that it was a schmozzle of near-Biblical proportions (most likely the book of Revelations) matters not one bit. Truth is, I don’t care whether they pulled down the page because we were under sustained cyber-attack by a hostile foreign government intent on wreaking revenge for making fun of their Olympic swimming team or a fifteen year old who used one too many double-adapters to accommodate his X-Box, Census night is still awesome.
I know that some people – even members of the Australian Senate – have raised concerns about privacy. This is result of a change in data handling practices. Apparently the Bureau of Statistics plans to hold on to our names for four years instead of the usual eighteen months. Granted, four years is a long time to not have access to your own name, but I see it as something of an opportunity. I’ve always wanted to make a name for myself and the loss of my real name is the perfect excuse. Either Lord Squishy Thundertrunks or Sir Selwyn Sausage-Fingers would be great (unless those names are already taken). That said, I’ve always lacked the necessary DIY skills to make anything much, including a name for myself. There’s a risk that I may not get past the blueprint stage but it’s a risk I’m prepared to take. It’s worth it. However, sometimes I don’t think we give Census night the credit it deserves.
Christmas comes every year. Census night is only once every five years. Statistically speaking, Census night is five times more special than Christmas and should be treated as such. We should not only record who we were with on the big night, but exchange gifts also. Come to think of it, five years is way, way too long to wait. The Census should be annually. And it shouldn’t just be about where to build the next school or municipal building but where to locate convenience stores, fish and chip shops and reliable dry cleaners who do more than simply claim same-day dry cleaning but, gosh darn it, deliver it. Life moves too quickly to have to wait half a decade for anything.
On second thoughts, even annually is not enough. Make it weekly. Scratch that. The Census should be fitted to your car like an interlock so that every time you turn the key to head down to the shops, you have to fill out your form before the engine will start. That way, at least the questions that impact road infrastructure will be front of mind. In this world of ‘sat nav’ and ‘touch screens’, the car is pretty much a laptop on wheels anyway. Anything is possible. Then there’s the matter of the questions themselves.
We should settle everything through the Census. Perhaps we could even change its name to ‘Con-Census’ to indicate that we, as a nation, have resolved all manner of issues by general agreement. Information about where to build schools and hospitals is all well and good, but there’s no reason why we couldn’t go a lot further. Issues such as marriage equality could be swiftly resolved. In fact, forget lining up to cast your vote in an election – the Census would replace queuing up at your local primary school. Now that I think about it, the Census should incorporate your footy tips, Christmas list and who Richie should have chosen in the season finale of The Bachelor. (I still feel the result would have gone Alex’s way. Truly.) The problem isn’t that the Census is too invasive. It’s that it doesn’t go far enough.
Sometimes I wish I could look at my previous Census forms. It’d be like flipping through a digital photo album. In a funny way, the Census underscores the inevitability of change; both personally and as a nation. It’s a neat reminder that time, however ordinary it may seem, marches forward regardless. We can only hope that we keep up. Best wishes – Lord Squishy Thundertrunks Esquire, Tyabb.