What’s the worst profession when it comes to choosing a partner?

When it comes to choosing a spouse, what’s the worst occupation for them to be in? Some say “mechanic” because they fix everyone else’s cars, and then never have time for their own. The mechanic’s partner is the one whose car is belching smoke, the indicator lights are busted and the brakes don’t work.

Ditto the plumbers (the cistern in their own home has been leaking for years), and the dentists (who are always easy to identify from the wonky teeth of their children).

Builders, I’m told, can also be problematic. In any given year, they’ll have built 10 homes for others: perfect work, finished on time, good clean-up afterwards, while failing to fix the latch on their own screen door, the one that broke 15 years ago.

A palaeontologist meets a fashionista.

“Worst occupation with whom to marry” is, admittedly, a competitive field. Some say victory should go to the doctors and nurses. I know several people who’ve made the mistake of marrying into medicine, and all give the same report card: “My loved one is enormously caring and sensitive with every single person in the world. Except for any member of their own family. You could have had your arm cut off, with blood spurting everywhere, or a harpoon stuck in your back and pointing out the front, and they’d still say: ‘Oh come on, stop carrying on, it’s only a flesh wound. Take an aspirin and for God’s sake stop whinging’.”

So, let’s gather the votes. What’s the worst profession when it comes to choosing a partner? Here’s my submission: Try living, as I do, with a drama writer.

Whether it’s a TV show, a movie or a novel, there’s no plot device Jocasta has not seen before, and probably used herself. There is therefore no storyline that she cannot confidently predict.

Here’s my submission: Try living, as I do, with a drama writer.

“That’s fine,” I hear you say, “because surely she can just keep these thoughts to herself and allow you to enjoy the story.”

To which I say: “Have you met her?”

Murder mysteries are the worst. Often, we’ll be 10 minutes into the program and Jocasta will have successfully predicted the identity of the killer, the method of death and the clue that will give it all away.

Halfway through I might say: “Well, this time you are wrong. The police clearly think James the vicar did it, and certainly the evidence is entirely convincing.”

At this point, Jocasta will then look at me with weary compassion and say: “There are still 25 minutes to go, so it can’t be him. Besides, The Fisherman is certain to return to the screen. He’s played by an actor who is way too famous to only have one short scene right at the start. So, he’s the killer.”

Ten minutes later, The Fisherman will be arrested, in a dramatic scene where Mr Famous Actor gets to show off his acting chops, after which he won’t leave the screen until the end credits.

“Told you so,” Jocasta will chirp, having wrecked yet another night of televisual entertainment.

Sometimes it seems downright creepy. This week, we watched a romantic comedy set in Spain. “Oh, no,” I said to her, “that police officer has just stopped them, probably for speeding, and she might then impound the car, which means they’ll never get to the wedding.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Jocasta, “she just wants to give him back his wallet. Remember? He lost it in episode one, which seemed a pointless piece of plotting unless they were planting that information for later use. Also, in what possible romantic comedy do the main characters fail to make it to the wedding?”

I can see her point. It’s still annoying.

Later, in the same show, a narrow road was blocked by a truck, with the driver refusing to reverse.

“He should just back up,” I said, relying on my extensive experience driving Australia’s narrow dirt roads.

“He can’t reverse the truck,” replied Jocasta, “because there’s an angry bull in the back of the truck.”

Five minutes later, the drama got to the point: the driver couldn’t reverse because there was an angry bull in the back of the truck.

At which point I gave up – both watching the drama and trying to understand the workings of my wife’s mind.

So, “drama writer”, when it comes to living with one, gets my vote for the world’s most annoying occupation. But I will accept some last-minute entries.

Living with a teacher probably goes well until they use their “teacher voice” to correct your poor behaviour. How awful would that be? A therapist would be a terrific partner, except when they interrupt an argument to say: “And how does that make you feel?” And a politician would be great until you asked a simple question – “Did you remember to buy milk?” and “Where did you put my shirt?” – and they found themselves unable to give a straight answer.

So what’s Jocasta’s vote for the worst life partner?

“Newspaper columnist,” she says, without hesitation. “You make a few idle observations while watching television in the privacy of your own home, and suddenly, it’s in the newspaper. Talk about annoying!”

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