There’s nothing like an official-looking document to make you suddenly forget how to spell your own name, or what year you were born.
Faced with revealing everything apart from my bra size on the census form that dropped through the letter box last week, I had a sudden attack of amnesia.
And that was before I encountered the multiple choice. Am I English, or British? In good health or very good health? Does the diploma I achieved, aged 21, count as a professional qualification or a work-related one?
It doesn’t sound difficult until you have to put it down on paper, in pen and then post it back to the statistics folk.
‘I hate you doing forms,’ snapped my husband. Me too.