“Pace yourself,” they said in the smoking tent. “Don’t feel you have to do everything.”

I’ve spent the past week at Swanwick Writing School, an annual event taking place in the tranquility of the Derbyshire countryside.

I didn’t pace myself. There’s a wall of exhaustion that kicks in somewhere around Tuesday evening. It hits everyone, apparently. The newcomers never expect it. I certainly hadn’t. It’s just writing, after all. How can that possibly be tiring?

The thing is that it isn’t just writing.  Writing is the theme that holds the week together. From published novelists with several titles on the shelf to procrastinating bloggers who need a shot of self-belief, we are all in some way writers. Swanwick is a wonderful leveller. We sat beside each other in learning sessions, served each other at meal times and surprised each other with talents in poetry, music and humour.

There’s a great deal of humour. It’s a long time since I’ve sat with strangers and laughed as much.

I’ve learned much too. From how to identify a magazine’s typical reader and write with her in mind through to how to play a Monty Python song on the kazoo. I’ve also learned that being an introvert is OK, but that Swanwick gently tickles the edges of that until it frays a little. Even I felt personable by the end of the week.

The writing school’s now in its 68th year and is awash with tradition. The week, and each day within it, is organised in a particular way. I’d expect that most things with that sort of history have a bit of dustiness to them. Not so with Swanwick; there’s a thirst for feedback and suggestions, although I couldn’t think of anything with room for improvement.  The welcome for first-timers is second-to-none, and there’s a special system encouraging young writers to join in.

Amongst all of that – they call it the Swanwick Magic, and that’s no exaggeration – I attended sessions on character development, grammar, editing, plotting, structure and memoir. One day was set aside for not procrastinating, and I wrote more that day than I’ve ever written in one stretch.

We looked at music and lyrics on Thursday morning; one of the last two sessions I went to. One of the songs we explored was Hotel California. I liked the end particularly; You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Apt, I thought. I feel I’ve found a real hidden gem. I’ll be back.

I found it at the Beamish museum this spring. In the bit of the afternoon where Mike and I had parted for some separate exploring.

And – historians forgive me – whilst a family were chatting to the guide, I leaned over the Do Not Touch rope and held my fingers on the cloth.

This was the tablecloth at my grandparents’ house in Goole. Or one very like it.

I learned to write on a tablecloth like this. And this is where I first heard about heaven.

We would sit at the table for board games and card games and occasional painting. All of them disrupted by the fact that the cloth was so thick that nothing ever really sat on it neatly; everything sort of hovered.

There was a big window right in front of the table. And on many days a cloud above the window. As my little mind understood it then, a cloud where God was looking down on us. Probably shaking His head at my terrible efforts at painting.

At mealtimes, there was a second cloth – a white cotton one. There was a knack to putting it on so it didn’t drag over this one. But once on, it was the base for some of the best foods ever. Porridge for breakfast, made with oats soaked overnight. Sunday lunches groaning with homegrown vegetables. Teatimes watching Countdown with the toaster on the table. And Boxing Day afternoons with tinned salmon sandwiches and a pork pie the size of my cousin David’s head.

After every meal, crumbs from the white cloth would be shaken across the lawn, and we’d watch in stillness as the birds came to enjoy our leftovers. Literally still, so we didn’t disturb the birds as my Grandad painted them.

At other times, people shared cigarettes, photographs, home perms and the comfort of having a hard chair to rest a dodgy back. And all of that was back with me in just a few seconds of touching.

There was a loo roll, too, in part of a bathroom exhibit. Lots of far less comfy memories there, and no temptation to touch and relive the sensation.

There were stories of gloom every morning on the radio; people wanting to curb this and that, spectators being banned from taking all sorts of things into the Olympic Park and an army of people being sent out to patrol the cities of Britain and check whether anyone was misusing the Olympic brand. Or, seemingly more importantly, stepping on the toes of the huge corporations who’d sponsored parts of the games.

All of that changed from the Wednesday before the games began. Mrs Button took the afternoon off to travel down to London with a special ticket for the last rehearsal of the Opening Ceremony. One of those times when knowing someone who knows someone comes in ever so handy.

And she sent me a text, way after bedtime, telling me that it was all so exciting that I’d have been unable to cope with the emotion of being there.

It turned out that she wasn’t the only one. Twitter was going bonkers with Danny Boyle’s #savethesurprise hashtag.  I get a lot of my news via Twitter these days, and it astounded me that the people who’d seen the rehearsals all really were saving the surprise.

Two days later, I was awake ’till way after midnight and utterly mesmerised by the whole thing.  I’m still a little unsure of how bizarre it might have seemed to the rest of the world, but it was a fabulous celebration of Britishness.

I squealed a little when the Shipping Forecast spluttered across the opening.  I didn’t really stop gasping with pride and pleasure until Paul McCartney came on to his own spluttering soundtrack and closed the show.

I’ve never been so excited about anything sporty. And it’s been wonderful to share in the excitement online. I can’t imagine it would have been anything like as great if we’d done it without twitter and facebook.  But I’ve been on the edge of my seat at sports I’d never watched before, and I’ve cried along with the stories from the athletes and all of their support teams.

We needed this, I think.

I know all countries have times when things feel pretty grim, but we’d been feeling grimmer than I can remember for a pretty long time.

The momentum that had started with the Jubilee and the first of the torch runs has reached its perfect crescendo.

I’m not sporty. Not at all. I once scored a rounder, and I once managed to turn a single cartwheel. Both of them utter flukes, but both elating enough to help me know what a whisper of victory might feel like.

I know it’s the sport that counts, but it’s been so many other things too. The Royal Mail painting postboxes gold in our gold medalists’ home towns. The police officers striking poses to match winners. Athletes’ wives and partners talking about the sacrifices they’ve made for years for the sake of their loved one having a few moments to shine.

It’s been great because we’ve all been able to get on board with it.  Those are the moments that have made the Olympics.  And those are the moments that have made us proud to be British.

Photos are Creative Commons licenced and from The Department for Culture, Media and Sport’s flickr stream.

Mama Kat asked us to write about our favourite Olympic Moments this week.  Follow the link to join in with lots more prompts.

I took this picture on the beach at Blyth. We were there a couple of weeks ago, and it was pretty cold and windy. It seems quite a bleak place, but then there are lots and lots of benches with bits of poetry and songs and quotations on them.

And Cole Porter really knew how to write about love.

(I’ve left this one full size, so if you click on it you get the big version).

We don’t make a great deal of use of the spice rack, but Mike’s been tidying the kitchen and decided that he’d put the herbs and spices into alphabetical order.

A lot of these are very old, and possibly the ones that came with the rack when I bought it about 10 years ago. I think the Herbes de Provence sell by date is showing there – certainly pre-2010.  I really ought to clear these out…

Indoors because it’s a bit nippy outside (I can’t believe that this is the best that June can muster).

In a hurry because Mike’s being watching the football and has been doing that strange touchy-feeling thing that men do when they’re drunk.  I was partly safari-ing and partly fighting him off…

(He never drinks, so we’ll forgive him this once).

On with the show!

Mike’s shoe rack. It would be unfair to say that it genuinely pongs, but there’s a bit of a whiff a lot of the time.

Vodka – the reason for tonight’s over-affections. This has appeared in the fridge since this morning and is already much-diminished.

When we were in our teens, there was a weird myth that vodka didn’t smell and that we could get away with drinking it without anyone knowing. I don’t know whether we had a different sense of smell back then, or whether they’ve changed the formula in the last 25 years or so, or whether it was a sort of false sense of security thing that adults lulled us into.

But it definitely does smell and I can’t understand why we thought we’d ever get away with it.

Smelly cheese. We discovered this when we were in St Ives and had it as part of our lovely early evening meals on the balcony.

Mike’s always been a lover of stinky cheeses. I don’t usually like them, but I’ve really taken to this one. I don’t even mind that it makes the whole fridge smell.  In fact, I quite like the fact that it makes the whole fridge smell.

Weird.

Leather – my gorgeous leather satchel from Cybher this year. (I’ve just booked for next year’s event as well).  The ultimate conference bag, I reckon.

I absolutely love the smell of leather.  I have no idea why – it doesn’t remind me of anything or evoke any particular memory. But I could sit smelling that bag for hours.

Also weird (!)

I absolutely love the smell of baby powder, even though we’ve never had a baby. There’s something really comforting and smooth about it.

About a million years ago, I read in Cosmopolitan that baby powder was the most offputting smell to a boy who one was trying to entice. Something about it smelling of commitment, I think.

I often think of that when I’m covering myself in it.

Our soap. We have a running discussion about this. The open one there is Shield, which is cheap as chips and I love. It smells properly clean to me. Mike despises it and always wants us to have Imperial Leather.

I’m sure that we only ever had Imperial Leather at Christmas when I was growing up, and it feels too indulgent to have it all the time.

So we’ve come to a compromise and we alternate, which still feels decadent to me.

I don’t know whether this is over-gloomy.  I’m pretty certain that it’s over-sharing, but I couldn’t really write about smells and not write about this.

This shoebox sits in my wardrobe, kept closed and wrapped in a carrier bag to keep the smell in.

My Mum died 15 years ago this year. This box has her jewellery in.

And it has (it still has – I just checked) the tiniest hint of a smell of her too. I sure that, after all this time, it must be 99% imagination. But there’s definitely still a bit of her there.

I know that smells have a huge power over me, to take me back somewhere and remind me of something.

Anything from a wet pavement to a cafetiere full of great hot coffee.

From egg sandwiches to freshly mown grass.

When I’m anxious, I want to know that my hands smell clean.

And when I want to remember being young, I know I can find that memory by nipping into the Body Shop for a quick squirt of White Musk.

I have a bit more safari-ing to do this week, I think.

I’ve been playing around with Instagram lately, and am falling in love with the way that it can make a very simple photo into something really special. This isn’t an Instagram picture, but I’ve used Picasa to create a similar feel.

I don’t have lots of time this evening, but I had a bit of a creative burst and photographed a few bits at work as I was waiting for Mike to pick me up.  And then a few extra bits I found at home. I think that doing red made me all thrusting and urgent. I’m not sure I’d have felt the same if I was looking for yellow or pink.

I’m loving the new collage feature on picmonkey, by the way. Can you tell?

I am thinking…that I should be ready for our trip out today, and that Mike will be upstairs to gather me up very shortly.  Him chivvying me along is part of the routine of us going anywhere. He pretends to be exasperated with me, but I think he secretly enjoys it.

I am thankful…for having had a two week rest from work. We’ve had a gorgeous holiday in St Ives followed by a few days at home. We’re setting out to Northumberland this morning for another little break, hopefully via a museum that I’ve wanted to go to for too many years.

In the kitchen…we have very little as we’ve been away and then here only briefly, and now we’re going away again. So we’ve been living on bits from the cupboard and the freezer. But then having very little for us isn’t really the case; I’m a terrible hoarder, and I do often joke that we seem to keep enough food in to survive a month with no shopping.

I am wearing…PJs, still. And I really ought to be having a shower.  But, you know, if I had the choice I’d wear PJs all the time.

I am creating…lots of part-posts for blog entries. I so wanted to spend some of my time off on writing more, but that wasn’t to be. I have two jotters for notes (one with butterflies and one with polka-dots, in case you were wondering). I carry them around with me and write beginnings of things and bits of inspiration. Sometimes just a post title or a little spider diagram.  I keep promising myself that I’ll find the time to work through them all and finish them.

I am going… to have a huge clear-out this coming month. We have a space booked at a table-top sale, and I so want to turn some of my old junk into a bit of spare cash.  I never throw anything away, and I just generally have far too much ‘stuff’.  I think I used to feel that ‘stuff’ was part of what defined us. Now it just seems to take up space and get in the way.

I am wondering…whether the weather will hold out for us this weekend, or whether I ought to be double-packing so that I have outfits for warm and cold weather.  I’ll probably double-pack anyway. I usually do.

I am reading…Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott.  I don’t often read real paper books these days, but I’d heard so many good things about this that I ordered a copy. I’m only part-way through and am loving it. I’ve actually filled up with tears twice because there are parts that are so incredibly insightful.

I am hoping…that work has been fairly smooth while I’ve been away. I’ve missed it more than I expected to, and I’m ready to throw myself back in next week.

I am looking forward to…spending lots of time with Mike at the weekend.  Hopefully daytimes taking some creative photographs in interesting places, and evenings of lovely food and romantic strolls.

I am learning…to be calmer and more laid back than I used to be.  I want to be more creative in my personal life, and I need somehow to be more floaty.  That’s the best way I have to explain it right now.

Around the house…we have piles and piles of freshly washed laundry waiting to be ironed.

I am pondering…on whether to take over a different corner of the house for my writing, instead of trying to do it in the same room as the TV.

A favourite quote for today…

“Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead.” – Louisa May Alcott

One of my favorite things…is – this is a bit of a silly one – a new Sherbert Lemon cordial drink we found this past week. We were in a different supermarket to our normal one, looking for summery drinks. I think this one’s meant for children, but I’m loving it!

A few plans for the rest of the week: Our trip. A day at home for tidying and so on. Back to work on Wednesday.

A peek into my day…Lazy day so far. About to spring into action once I’ve pressed the post button.

I came across this prompt list at The Simple Woman’s Daybook just a couple of days ago.