After several warnings of a dire variety I was expecting registering at the Commune to be a Kafka-esque day-mare, and that I would be sent away in hot sulky tears. By 8.20am I was back on the street holding a stamped and signed document with my Belgian ID number on it. The nice lady even wished me a very good day in English. It seems that I have an administrative fairy godmother, because everyone I have spoken to has reported problems with registration.
Whatever is lubing the bureaucracy for me, long may it last. As someone pointed out, the rest of my life involves bums. Perhaps this is karmic balance in action.