This week I have been mostly crying. Not that I intended to, or even noticed that I was at the time.

It's only now, sitting down to write this on Friday morning , that I realise it at all, and it's only the pressure of having to produce a weekly column that helps me to remember what I've actually been doing for the past seven days.

Most of the time my life is a blur to me, moving quickly and unpredictably from moment to moment, lurching from drama to crisis, coloured by the odd triumph, punctuated by brief little cushions of calm and offset by a chorus of clinking.

I realised a while ago there's very little point in trying to keep up with myself, so I don't really try.

The past few months have been busier than usual in any case with our summer radio show on Radio NZ to prepare for. We've been on air for the past four weeks and so I've been talking to far more people on a daily basis than I normally would.

It is one of the abiding ironies of my job that I'm not a huge fan of people as they exist in front of me, in the flesh.

I have a great capacity for talking and I'm easily beguiled by ideas, which makes me a weird class of misanthrope I know, but in general I have to admit, I prefer the idea of meeting people far more attractive than the actual reality of doing so.

Especially first thing in the morning. So that's been a challenge, but it wasn't what made me cry.

Actually, I've loved it. Of course I have. I'm mindful many of you will be brunching with this column, so I won't make your gorge rise with the usual incontinent ramblings from a media woman about what a privilege this job is, and how supersmashing lovely it is to interact with people from all walks of life, hear their stories and share them with our listeners.

It is lovely, and it is a privilege, but luvvies are sickeners so I'll shut up about that. Sometimes, though, you have a moment at work that takes things to a whole new level and is a genuine surprise.

I had one of those on Wednesday morning and it made my week. It was the day of the Obama inauguration, so I was probably primed for it, having been in tears since I turned on the telly at 6am.

As soon as those first images from the Mall came in I was off, just like I knew I would be. I'm a glutton for spectacle. Can't get enough of it. I like nothing better than to gorge myself on pageantry and I'm not really fussy about its source or reason. I'm as likely to cry at a dawn parade as at an Oscars acceptance speech, and yes, I do know how crass it is to conflate the two.