Denominating the Enumerator
Grandad May 6th, 2011
I mentioned a while ago that we were having a census.
I forgot to relate the follow-up to that.
To recap, our illustrious gubmint [working on instructions from our real rulers, the EU] decided to take a stock check and we were all given forms to fill in. We were told in no uncertain terms that we had to fill in the forms or else pay a fine of €25,000. We were also assured that the whole business would be completely confidential. [pause for laughter] Now, I don’t have €25,000 just lying around and it wouldn’t give it to those fucks even if I did.
I filled in the form on the due date and left it out in the porch for collection.
The days and weeks passed until finally there was a knock on our door. It was our enumerator calling to collect the form. Now I happen to know that the enumerator is a local, because he told me. Whatever about faceless bureaucrats nosing around in my business, I draw the line at my private information being bandied around in the pub. I assumed he could be trusted however, and I handed over the form.
Did he put it into a locked briefcase? Did he fuck! Did he even put it in an envelope? In my hole, he did. The little shit proceeded to read the entire thing there in front of me. What was worse, he started to query some of my answers! He queried the fact that I live in a penthouse, and had the gall to cross that out and put in ‘cottage’. He queried the number of bedrooms that I have. He questioned the number of children, stating that twenty eight was a little high. All in all the little bollix went about rewriting virtually all my form.
I complied with the law.
I filled out the form, and returned it.
I can’t help it if my form and the enumerator went missing.
They still haven’t found him.
Heh!
Subscribe to audio
