I love a census. As a child I was mildly obsessed with the concept, probably driven in part by the yearly dose of the nativity story and the idea that Mary had to get up on that donkey to go home to Bethlehem to be counted, and she was about to pop.
I was extremely taken with the idea that if you weren’t in your own home on census evening you were counted wherever you were for the night. I thought it might be extremely glamorous if I were dropped over to a pal’s for a sleepover and had to be counted there instead, although I would definitely have worried that this might mean I now had to live with my adoptive family forever and get used to their weird mashed potatoes and nippy dog.
Assuming the nosyholes of 2122 will have their own version of <a class="search" href='javascript:window.parent.actionEventData({$contentId:"7.1213540", $action:"view", $target:"work"})' polopoly:contentid="7.1213540" polopoly:searchtag="tag_company">Google</a> and a keen understanding of how we lived our lives in 2022, what can I possibly add to the census time capsule that will be of any interest to inquisitive eyes?
As an eternal nosyhole, I have already used all of the historical information available to me – the complete 1901 and 1911 censuses of Ireland are available to search online – to determine that I'm descended from shepherds, I grew up in a north Kildare townland with a great history of shepherds and basically if you cut me open, I'd bleed lambs' milk formula and sheep dip.
Going through these old records has made me yearn for more information; okay so John who lived in that crumbling cottage up the road in 1911 was – you guessed it – a shepherd, but what did he do of an evening? Did he like living with his mother? Who did he fancy?
Now, for the first time ever, the 2022 census will feature an empty box for people to add extra information to a time capsule that will be opened in 2122, and I am tormented about what to write.
John in 1911 didn't have much to hand in terms of documenting his life. Maybe he wrote letters, maybe he kept a diary, maybe his descendants have tales handed down via word of mouth. He didn't have access to Twitter, email, Facebook, Instagram and countless other online forums on which he could bleat his every waking thought.
Assuming the nosyholes of 2122 will have their own version of Google (as well as flying cars, finally) and a keen understanding of how we lived our lives in 2022, what can I possibly add to the census time capsule that will be of any interest to inquisitive eyes? In a word: gossip.
Gossip is all anyone wants when they’re researching their family tree or who lived in their house 100 years before them. In 1911 the gossip might have been about who was joining the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union, who was seen stepping out with a Catholic or a Protestant depending on what side of the divide you were on, or whose sister was actually their auntie.
I'll tell future generations what it was like to live through the first golden age of the Healy-Raes. Because if anything is going to still be going in 100 years, it will be the Healy-Raes
The 2122 gossip might be who owns a holiday home and leaves it empty seven months of the year, who’s voting this way or that way, depending on what side of history they want to be on, and whose sister is insisting on having a gender-reveal party even though she’s already told the whole road she’s having a girl and has bought half of Next.
I live alone, so I might write about why that suits me and how I don’t understand how my upstairs neighbours get a Shetland pony in every night at half eleven to gallop around on their wooden floors.
I’m worried about climate change, so maybe I’ll gossip about who can’t be arsed to separate their recycling, while also admitting to the 2122-ers that we already know washing out the yoghurt tubs isn’t going to save the world.
I might write that I’m thinking about leaving Dublin, because it’s so expensive and I can’t afford to buy a house.
I might add a line there about how lucky I am to afford to rent a flat, and how I’m thinking about all the people who’ve fallen through the census cracks and aren’t in a home on Sunday evening, April 3rd. It might not be juicy gossip, but what better opportunity to talk about people than when they aren’t there to be counted?
I’m worrying now about my handwriting. The time capsule box must be filled in by hand and I’ll need to be economical to fit in as much chat as possible. I’ll need to fit in who I know who currently has Covid, how much I paid for petrol that weekend and what the main topic of conversation has been in my WhatsApp groups that day.
I’ll need to warn anyone looking for love to avoid anyone descended from a gas ticket who put “Jedi” down as their religion “for a laugh”. I’ll give a quick run-down of my family tree, mention my mother’s 16-year-old cat in case the animal outlives us all, and I’ll tell future generations what it was like to live through the first golden age of the Healy-Raes. Because if anything is going to still be going in 100 years, it will be the Healy-Raes.