Questions, questions ...

It's all very well for Lucy in The Guardian:

... now I am facing the census form, and for one thing it's not a form, it's a book; and for another there is an emotional or existential crisis on every page.

The first few pages starkly reveal the utterly pedestrian nature of my life. Born in Britain, raised in Britain, no, I haven't left Britain in the past year. Cut me and I bleed soggy sprouts. I have a husband, not a same-sex civil partner, and a terrace house and no step-anythings.

But I prefer these to the guilt-inducements. Do I look after, or give any help or support to, family members, friends or neighbours, or do anything at all that would demonstrate that I give a mouse-sized shit about anyone outside the address on the front of this form? No, I do not.

Some of us are still waiting for the arrival of the form. Does the Royal Mail not know that I am a citizen? And should I be pleased about it?