Only those who've been to the York Festival of Writing will understand when I say that all weekend, you're buzzing. The adrenalin kicks in as soon as you see the Writer's Workshop staff at the registration desk, the first few cloudie friends, the geese on the lake...
By Sunday afternoon, you're so cream crackered that you can hardly think straight - you've 1-2-1 feedback running through your head, disbelief from MS requests or competition wins (not me, I hasten to add - but I saw many in that situation), and sheer lack of sleep.
Sunday night, if you're like me, you're glad to get back to your own bed, which is in a quiet room and not lumpy...there's even a proper shower instead of a curtain that loves you and won't leave you alone.
And then it's Monday morning. And you are going through the motions as the adrenalin drains away and normal service is resumed: alarm goes off at 6am, making sandwiches, finding PE kits, catching up with the washing pile (which has turned inexplicably into a mountain while you've been away, in spite of the fact you did LOADS before you went exactly so that wouldn't happen) and trying to morph from 'Squidge the author' back to 'Squidge the mum/wife/homemaker'.
I WILL tell you more about the festival - the workshops, the gala dinner, my 1-2-1 feedback on King Stone, the pitiful 2/3 photos that I took - but not just yet.
Be patient. It will be worth it, I promise.