The Sydney Writers' Festival is over. I am trying in my own way to cope, but I won't pretend it's easy.

I've been walking around all day in my new shoes, blistering up for the plane ride home. Art galleries are interesting, but paintings don't have question and answer sessions, and they aren't cantankerous and opinionated and hilarious and they don't sign themselves for you in the foyer afterwards.

Coming home tomorrow with a whole lot of scribbled notes on the backs of envelopes. Hopefully I'll have something sensible to say by then.