After the comedy festival, which was a month-long show and which tuckered me out more than I thought it would, I had a long list of things I wanted to do (some of which are listed below). Then, life happened. I got crook, I had a few major things happen  that were outside my apparently very limited field of control, and then, finally, this weekend, I returned home. I hoiked my suitcase upstairs, made myself a cup of tea, clambered into my PJs and said "I might lie down here for a bit".

That was on Thursday. It is now Monday and I have only just forced myself out of bed like one of those baby lambs, steaming and fresh from the womb, wonkily stumbling sideways into fence posts and attempting to shake off the cold. For those of you weren't in Melbourne this weekend, let me tell you what happened: it rained. It hasn't rained in Melbourne for an entire day like that since I can't remember when and this weeekend it absolutely throttled us.

Even if it hadn't, I still think I would have hybernated. The fact of the matter is, after a show like that, when everything has to be done instantly and all decisions need to be made, acted on, and followed through to their practical conclusion without any time for contemplation or analysis, I always end up hiding under a rock when it's done.

I realised the ther day what it is: I get passive. Having been active for so long, I now insist on hanging back. I read emails but I never reply. I scour the paper for information but don't really process it. I never make phone calls. I never make appointments. I read but don't write. I listen to music and watch TV (never films - going outside is an effort). I don't pay bills. I see friends only by accident and when I do I am weird and fuzzy and embarrassed and awkward. I hybernate, mentally and physically.

This is why the Sydney Writers' Festival is always such a godsend for me. It's always just after the comedy festival (with enough time in between for me to get a virus) and I have absolutely nothing to do there except for read, listen, watch, drink coffee while staring at the water and standing in a queue, and ask authors questions. If, in some hypothetical universe, I wrote a book and was invited to speak at the Sydney Writers' Festival, I might think twice about compromising the beautiful winter-sunned, expensive-coffeed, lonely but hopeful context-free zone that is the Sydney Writers' Festival experience for me.

I'm going on Thursday. When I return I promise to be a more active member of society, clad in daytime wear and doing adult things like paying bills, having conversations with actual people, and getting some work done. And I might even write something interesting in here, although that is by no means an iron-clad rock solid promise.