Carol’s Column

Common census bites the dust

IT WAS a thrilling sight to observe — the little man dancing up the driveway last Tuesday morning at the crack of dawn.

A slender, Nureyev-like figure in a sky-blue safari suit with his comb peeping cheekily from his sock.

"Can I help you?" I called from the sweetpea patch where I was gently watering the sprouting shoots.

"Is the Modom in?" he asked from the front door porch.

"The Modom?"

"Are you the summons, sewerage or rat-catcher man?" I inquired hesitantly from behind the chicken-wire barricade.

He giggled.

"Oh no, nothing as sinister as that. I'm your friendly neighbourhood enumerator. Tee hee."

A flood of happy warmth spread through me.

Oh, it was so good to know we were to be counted along with 24 million other South Africans.

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They hadn't forgotten us after all.

From under his arm, he pulled forth some documents and brandished them around.

An irresistible temptation to Liquorice-the-labrador who leapt skywards with one great bound, grabbed them in her fangs and disappeared in the direction of the compost heap.

Before I could apologise, the little man pulled out another set of forms, thrust them into my hands and shot off, his backflap bouncing in the breeze.

I clutched them and rushed upstairs to the shower where my husband scrubbed and bubbled to snatches of Gilbert and Sullivan.

"It's arrived, it's arrived," I shouted. "It's time to stand up and be counted."

My husband stuck his newly-shampooed head through the shower curtain.

"What's that terrible smell?"

In my excitement, I'd forgotten to remove my gardening boots. Newly-rotted and potent chicken manure lay scattered across the buttercup-yellow mosaic tiles.

At breakfast, we discussed the census forms.

"Don't worry, I'll fill them in this morning," I told my husband as he gaily gulped his way through his grapefruit and cream cheese.

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He paused, a slice of grapefruit poised dangerously at the edge of his lips.

"You fill them in?" he said.

"Of course I'll fill them in — it won't take long."

He underlined a section and passed it between the all-bran flakes and muesli.

"The form is to be filled in by the head of the household," he said, slowly.

"Fine, so I'll fill them this morning," I replied.

There was silence.

My husband sighed: "My mother was right," he said. "I should have married Sophia after all. She made passionate pasta and she used to call me 'Beautiful bambolina'."

I read the instructions. They were totally incomprehensible.

The questions themselves were quaint. Such as: "Are you northern Sotho, southern Sotho? What is your sex, religion, income and other such idiosyncrasies.

In two pages they asked your life away.

Plus the lives of those residing in your dwelling on the night of May 7.

I started counting.

"Do you realise we had 23 mouths residing in our dwelling last night?" I said to my husband.

"Furthermore, you are feeding them all." He was horrified.

"Are they all ours? Can't we get rid of some of them? Send them to your parents in Cape Town?"

I thought he was joking. I should have known better.

It took three hours to fill in the wretched forms. It was mentally and physically exhausting.

The questions were difficult. "Husband's name? Income? Hobbies?

After which, I sat back satisfied at a job well done.

At noon a few days later, there was a knock on the door.

There, dainty and debonair, he stood. Our friendly neighbourhood enumerator, his bright yellow label flashing in the sunlight — the one saying "I have sworn an oath of silence."

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Proudly, I handed him the census forms.

"It took me simply ages to fill them in," I confided.

"Well done," he said: "You've done your duty to the highest headcounters of the land."

I smiled.

He turned, waved goodbye and tripped over an unfriendly hosepipe.

The forms went flying and sadly landed in a somewhat softish dog-dropping strategically placed slightly to the left of the gatepost.

Liquorice, who had been left out, was now a large part of the census return.

Ah well.

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