OUR kitchen is strewn with study materials. A piece of paper has found its way into the cat's litter tray: notes on the Norman Conquest in my wife Jess's handwriting, stamped with a grubby paw print like the signature of a village idiot. Beneath the toaster there is something about the partition of Ireland, some scribbles on the second world war. Redundant pens are scattered across the floor like the casings of Luftwaffe bombs. In a few minutes, we will be engaged in the Battle of Britishness, and am fairly sure that I can win.

To do so, I must answer more sample questions correctly than Jess, based on the government's Life In The UK test, without having studied. I take a sneaky peek at her practice book: "Why did Protestant Huguenots from France come to Britain?" I close the book quickly, reviled. Next to it is a Home Office publication called Life In The United Kingdom, A Journey To Citizenship, from which the questions have been culled. In its foreword, the Rt Hon John Reid describes the test as a must "for people who want to become British citizens".

Jess has no desire to become a British citizen. She is an Australian who, for better and worse, married me, a Scot. Neither she nor I wear Union Jack underwear or pearly suits; nor have we any wish to attend the mandatory flag-waving "citizenship ceremonies" set up in 2005 for successful new patriots. Luckily, applying for full British citizenship is a choice, unlike applying for indefinite leave to remain (ILR) in the UK, which is what Jess, with some urgency, must do. I ask the mugshot of John Reid to remind me why Jess needs to sit this test, and it answers deadly seriously: "We think the benefits of this approach in creating strong and cohesive communities are clear. That is why, from April 2, 2007, we will also be asking people who apply for permanent settlement in the UK to pass the same test."

Unfortunately, nobody told us about this development. The change was ushered in by the new Border and Immigration Agency, set up as an executive wing of the Home Office on April 1. Initiating the test on this date might have invited people to decry it as an April Fool's joke; launching it three days later might have been too reminiscent of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, with its vision of state control turned nasty beginning on April 4. Instead, they plumped for April 2, Jess's birthday - a gift she could happily have done without.

Since marrying in 2005, we have been more or less free of such nuisances. At that time, Jess needed to return to Australia from Scotland to apply for a marriage visa in person. Email would have been cheaper than the £900 return flight, of course, but was not allowed. In any case, we would still have needed to pay the £250 administration fees. In return she received two years in the UK with no voting rights, but was required to pay national insurance and income tax ad infinitum. Now, 23 months in, she needs to apply for ILR. "If only she was from the EU," I think, "none of this would be necessary." But she's not, and it is.

The standard cost of the ILR process is £750 if applying by post, or - bizarrely - £950 in person, presumably for the added inconvenience. The state requires at least 20 documents addressed to us both at the same abode, including our passports and driving licences. Doctors must write letters, employers lend their photocopiers, bank statements yield their figures, minus the exorbitant administration fees. Not surprisingly, the UK visa industry is self-supporting, with an income of £190 million last year.

Then there is the test. On December 12, Jess's current visa runs out. Without a pass certificate as part of the ILR package, her application will be refused, rendering her an illegal immigrant and - potentially - persona non grata. This is serious. Time permitting, the test can be sat repeatedly, at a cost of £34 a go. But time, for us, does not permit.

The rules, at least, are simple: 24 multiple choice questions, with four possible answers for each. A pass certificate is dependant on answering 75% of the questions correctly. In addition to John Reid's Home Office tome (£9.99), students can buy the book Life In The UK Test: Practice Questions (£5.99), with example tests based on the study material.

"Stuff that," said I originally, confident that a scan through these books in Borders would suffice. It was hard to imagine what the questions might have been: "Do you feel like a scapegoat for this government's paperwork-heavy immigration policy?"

Perhaps "how much money have you already spent jumping through inane bureaucratic hoops?" But surely nothing more difficult than that.

By question six we were sweating. "According to the 2001 Census, what percentage of the UK population reported they had a religion?

"A 35%, B 55%, C 65%, D 75%."

I didn't know the answer. Jess didn't know the answer. I looked round the bookshop at a fairly broad sweep of the British demographic, and guessed that nobody would know the answer. We rammed the book back into its shelf, and caught the bus home feeling violent.

"Fractions and percentages seem to be a big favourite," I remarked.

"It's an outrage," Jess barked back.

"We're not buying the book," I roared. "Forget it."

Two days later we bought the book, and that's when our kitchen started getting messy. I tried to ignore the fact that 10% of Brits now live abroad, and that the UK is leaking more people than it attracts, but couldn't. I fantasised about throwing the book through the window, then chasing after it, and then stamping on it, repeatedly. But, unless we want to continue our relationship by phone (Jess upside down in Australia, me the right way up), she needs to pass this test. And accordingly, she has studied hard.

"You get a full 45 minutes to answer them," says Jess, arriving for our head-to-head contest. Had she been in the UK longer, or more immersed in British culture, she would have known the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire rule: if you don't know the answer, you can take as long as you need - you're not going to get it right. And there is no "phone a friend" in this case, no 50:50.

We sit in the kitchen at opposite ends of the table, ready to put our Britishness to the test. I'm not unduly concerned. The Home Office assures me that the exam is "designed to test knowledge of the practical information needed to become a full and active member of UK society". That's me: I am active. And, despite what seems to be a relentlessly London-centric view of the world on the part of the examiners, the odd Scottish question is thrown in for the sake of "regional variation". In any case, I can afford some slip-ups: the 75% pass-mark will allow me six out of 24 wrong. We begin, Jess asking the questions, and both of us writing our answers.

"Where is the Scouse dialect spoken?" she asks.

Easy.

"How often are elections held for the European Parliament?"

Easy-ish, but not, to my shame, entirely obvious.

After a couple more mundane questions - when is Guy Fawkes night? When is St Andrew's Day? - things get suddenly complicated.

"What proportion of the UK population have used illegal drugs at one point or another?" asks Jess.

I stare at her blankly; she scribbles an answer in her book.

"What proportion of women with children (of school age) are in paid work?" I'm faltering. I can feel the veins in my forehead swell. Jess has taken to covering her answers with her free hand; it feels like we're back in primary school.

"What percentage of the UK's ethnic minorities live in the London area?"

"Who cares?" I say. "Who bloody cares? This has nothing to do with being British."

"Shut up," says Jess.

"But "

"Shut up."

I fail. Badly. Out of 24 questions, I have made seven mistakes. If this were for real, I would have been forced to book another test immediately, and part with another wad of cash. We mark Jess's paper: only three mistakes. On balance, she is now the model citizen. In a few days, she will have to prove it for real if she wants to remain in the country. "It's not so bad," she says, "and I've definitely learned some new things." She is far too laid back, I think - too Australian - but I wish her the best of British.