The Census is a marriage stress-test disguised as a survey

Luckily, we soon move onto Person Two. Again, the website takes my date-of-birth and miscalculates my age, which is a serious fault they really need to fix.

I read aloud the next question: “What language do you speak at home?” and tick the box marked ‘English’. Jocasta just harrumphs. “Well, barely. It’s mostly a series of unintelligible grunts. Is there a box for that?”

I move on. “Do I need help with self-care?” . I’m about to tick “no”, when Jocasta stays my hand. “What about the lockdown haircut I gave you on the weekend? That’s ‘helping with self-care’. You could have done it on your own, but not without slicing off an ear.”

I note the haircut was hardly an unbridled success, ending as it did with Jocasta standing back, appraising her work, and saying: “Oh, my God, I am so, so sorry”. Generally, these are not the words you want to hear from your haircut provider.

“The standard of the cut is not important,” says Jocasta. “It’s still ‘help with self-care’. Besides, it mentions ‘help getting dressed’, and that’s certainly you. Without me, you’d leave the house dressed in four clashing shades of green and a pair of pants with a saggy crotch.”

I make a mental note to thank the chief statistician for his assistance in destroying my relationship.

At least the next question has an obvious answer. “Do you need help getting out of bed in the morning”?

I type “Journalist”, which causes Jocasta to snort out loud in derision. “I mean, you’re hardly Kate McClymont”, she explains.

“You have to tick ‘yes’,” says Jocasta. “All that time lying around groaning while the dog stands at the foot of the bed, with his lead on the floor, barking at you: “Get up! Get up! Get up!” If it wasn’t for Clancy, you’d be there all day. Really we should have written him up as Person Three.”

I move on to the next question. “Last week, did Richard have a job of any kind?”

I type “Journalist”, which causes Jocasta to snort out loud in derision. “I mean, you’re hardly Kate McClymont”, she explains, which I suppose is a fair cop.

Loading

“Main tasks at work?“, I read out rather tentatively, only to hear Jocasta’s suggested answer: “Banging on”.

“Main goods produced?“, I continue. “Hot air,” she says with a thud of inevitability.

Then it’s onto the housework, at which point the chief statistician rubs his hands together with glee. Who guessed that the Census is a marriage stress-test disguised as a survey?

“I do 5 to 14 hours a week,” I calculate. Jocasta isn’t so sure.

“Cradling a beer while standing next to the BBQ and burning my dinner, is not necessarily work,” she observes. “Neither is ironing the tea-towels, which, while it may satisfy some weird psychosexual urge in you, is hardly crucial to the running of the household.”

In the end, she agrees to the 5-to-14 hours but believes the chief statistician should permit an eye-rolling emoji to be added by any women involved in filling out the form.

I’m starting to enjoy the process. There are the statistician’s provocative questions, Jocasta’s amusing retorts, and the frisson of competitiveness when we compare our education attainments. “I’ve got a post-graduate diploma”, says Jocasta, as if she were five-years-old.

“Yes,” I reply, “but my degree is from a proper university, not a tin-pot outfit like the ANU.”

And so it goes, much fun all around, until the question about childcare. “In the last two weeks have you spent time looking after a child without pay.”

Suddenly, all Jocasta’s bluster evaporates. All she can think about is the grandchild she’s not allowed to visit.

Loading

“No, I haven’t”, she says. “Not for weeks and weeks. It’s not allowed, you see. It’s the lockdown.” She looks ready to cry.

Under COVID-19, the Census does sometimes lose its ability to amuse. Luckily, Jocasta finally rallies.

“Let’s go back to the haircut,” she says. “Is there any way we could upload a photo? We could thank the chief statistician by giving him a good laugh.”

GREATER GOOD
In need of some good news? The Greater Good newsletter delivers stories to your inbox to brighten your outlook. Sign up here.