My wife is a teacher. If that sounds a little like my personal introduction when debuting at a Teaching-Spouses Anonymous meeting then I apologise to all teachers.
However, if anybody is contemplating launching such a group, I'd be only too happy to sign up.
Don't get me wrong, I love my wife dearly - and I know she works very hard. But at this time of year it's very hard being the non-teaching spouse of a teacher. It's all down to holidays.
Mrs Bunky is now in the fourth week of an eight-week summer break. She knows nothing different having left university and walked straight into the teaching profession where she's remained ever since.
I, on the other hand, last had a long summer break in 1979. Since then I've had to get by on four - or if I'm very lucky five - weeks holiday a year. I'd never really had a problem with this until I met and married a teacher.
Teachers, it would appear from my self-help sessions with other spouses, do not understand how precious our holidays are. Take last week as an example. I took a week off - 25 per cent of my annual leave entitlement - to be with Mrs B. It was intended to be a week 'just chilling' - and, for the most part, it was.
But as always when 'she who must be obeyed' spends anytime in the house it ended with home improvements, which when I'm involved is a bit of a misnomer. To me, DIY has always stood for 'Don't Involve Yourself'. I pride myself in having a good relationship with all sorts of tradesmen around our town, so often have I called them in.
But when it's a simple case of re-hanging a towel rail I'm forbidden by my marriage vows from spending our hard-earned on manual labour . . . apparently.
So the last day of my week's holiday was spent filling holes, sanding down walls, repainting and attempting to re-hang the world's most badly designed towel rail. I choose my words carefully here: 'attempting' and 'day'. You will have gathered I am not the world's most adept handyman, nor it has to be said, the most enthusiastic.
What should be no more than an hour's work for a skilled DIY enthusiast turns into the best part of a day's labour for me. It also shows up the worst side of my vocabulary. At the very sight of me leaving the garage clutching my drill and toolbox, neighbours cover their children's ears and hurriedly push them inside as spouses close and lock all windows.
Even I didn't know I knew some of the words that come out when my drill bit meanders across an obviously badly constructed wall. At 3pm I was sat in a pool of sweat and dust attempting to insert the world's smallest allen key into a hole clearly created by a bitter IKEA designer on his last day in the job.
Two hours later I was sat in a pool of more sweat and more dust attempting to insert the world's smallest bent allen key into a second hole clearly created by a bitter IKEA designer on his last day in the job.
Stressed and exhausted - admittedly it doesn't take much - I eventually finished, only for my spirit level to laugh at me. That was enough for me and I retired to the lounge clutching a beer only for Mrs B to inform me that she had decided the garage needed clearing and that she would be taking everything to a car boot sale "on Wednesday" (today).
The following day I returned to work more stressed and more tired than I had been the day before my holiday started. Mrs B will return from the car boot sale this afternoon, with youngest son in tow, looking forward to another four weeks of house-painting, gardening and exam-paper marking. She loves it.
Hi. My name is Dave . . . and my wife is a teacher!
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