Peter Rhodes on mysterious bangs, long-lost trades and getting ready for the Census

How conspiracy theories begin. On a neighbourhood chatroom I came across a panicky posting from someone who had just heard a couple of explosions out in the countryside. The only explanation he could offer was that these detonations were somehow connected to work on HS2. So the hated HS2 is not only a financial black hole and an unwanted white elephant; it is also the cause of terrifying detonations ripping across our green and pleasant countryside. Boo, hiss.

Another contributor said, yes, he'd heard exactly the same explosions at the same time. He explained that they are what country folk call crow scarers.

So are we all braced to do our civic duty and fill in the Census 2021 form? According to the leaflet we should complete the census on Sunday and there's a fine of up to £1,000 for non-compliance. But read the small print and it seems you can fill in the form “as soon as possible after” Sunday and you can also complete it before Sunday, if you prefer. All very odd.

I am a great fan of the internet. I spend half my life on it. But there are times, and this is one, when paper beats microchip hands down. The beauty of the old printed census form was that you could flick quickly through it to see what sort of questions were coming. The online version, which we are all encouraged to use, is a black hole. The only guidance is that it should take “around 10 minutes per person to fill in.” But whether that 10 minutes applies to the householder filling in the form or to each of the individuals in the house is not made clear. And until you go online you won't find out.

So to recap. You must fill in the census form on Sunday. Or sooner. Or later. And it might take 10 minutes. Or all night. And when all the data are gathered in, we'll know how many people, at this critical moment in our history, might describe themselves as “confused.” I'm guessing about 60 million.

Look at the censuses of previous centuries and you'll find all sorts of strange, long-lost trades and professions, from abecedarian (a teacher of the alphabet) to zythepsarist (a brewer). One who dealt in eggs was an eggler while a legerdemainist was a magician, a shambler was a butcher, a skepperne sold woven beehives and a tiger was a liveried groom. And in a Victorian census, we journalists might well have described ourselves as couranteers.

We may smile at ye olden trades but what will historians 200 years from now make of the bewildering so-called professions of 2021? What on earth was a blogger, a vlogger, an influencer, an exhaust-pipe fitter, a vicar or a reality star?

I am taking a few days off from couranteering. Normal service will resume on Tuesday.