It's over!

My desperate battle-cry of 'The show must go on!" appears to have taken effect. I no longer have 3 phones ringing every few seconds with a group pilot demanding: "There is no taxi coming to pick them up, what I am supposed to do?" or the translator: "My tramway is up in smoke - I won't get to the theatre for the rehearsal in time" or the catering company: "Can you possibly come 15 minutes late? Nothing is ready for dinner yet". No longer do I have to keep track of 25 lost and forlorn artists in all stages of undress, distress and stress. No longer do I have to worry about where they left the 5-kg block of green clay, nor whether the Swiss branches and leaves really are sufficiently fire-proof enough to be placed 5 centimeters from the lit candles, or that the make-up assistant's child lost its favorite toy below the stage.
In a word, the festival is over. Finito. La fin. End of story.
Or rather the beginning - as you can imagine, I have my fair share of stories to tell after this ridiculous week, when adrenaline and a large dose of pseudo-ephedrine were the only things that kept me going from 7 AM to 12 PM eight days straight. It's not easy being one of 2 people responsible for an international theatre festival.
Once the adrenaline and pseudo-ephedrine were no longer in my system, I slept for a whole day. And a few more days for 12 hours straight. Now I feel okay. And I can commence the stories. Beware, some will be truly blood-curdling!