I've got a bad case of PTSD - post Taylor Swift depression

I know. I know. Taylor has left the building. She's now in Singapore, performing three shows in the steamy city-state. (And she thought Sydney humidity was bad for her hair.) The poor lass is only halfway through her Eras tour, which doesn't finish until December 8 in Vancouver, Canada.

But it's weird that, as a 50-something woman, I keep thinking of her performing on her first night in Sydney, post-dramatic thunderstorm, when more than 80,000 people enjoyed a spectacular show and an atmosphere of almost unrivalled bonhomie.

I think, as a mum, I just wanted to give Taylor a hug. Make sure she's OK. That's she's getting enough sleep and eating healthy food. Having enough "me time". After giving her all for more than three hours on stage, I thought: "You have to do this again tomorrow night? And the next? And the next?"

Of course, she's making an astronomical amount of money. Her concerts last year alone grossed more than $1 billion, according to Pollstar. I reckon she deserves every single dollar. She's the consummate performer. She's mesmerising. Her music is catchy, goddammit. But it has to be about more than the money. And being able to spread true joy to millions of people has got to be up there on her list of motivations.

I can attest to Taylor's ability to create a tsunami of happiness when my 13-year-old daughter and I finally scored tickets to one of her Sydney concerts. After spending what seemed like days in that bloody online Ticketek lounge (aka purgatory), being scammed by buying fake tickets, watching breakfast television to get code words for competitions to get tickets and finally resigning to the fact were weren't going to see her, something incredible happened.

I was picking my daughter up from school and opened my phone to scroll X (formerly Twitter) and the first thing in the feed was a Frontier Touring post saying more tickets were being released for her Sydney shows at 4pm. Like in half an hour.

I drove the car down to my daughter, yelled at her to get in and told her friend and the friend's mum to follow me to Cooleman Court. "There's more Taylor Swift tickets being released!" I bellowed through the car window at them. The mum understood. Noted. This. Was. Not. A. Drill.

We weren't mucking around with online sales anymore. Stuff. You. Ticketek. Lounge.

We went straight to the bricks-and-mortar Ticketek outlet at Songland Records in Cooleman Court and after lining up for about 45 minutes we had the Taylor Swift tickets in our hands. Like Charlie on his way to the chocolate factory. Eighty bucks each. Restricted view. Whatever. We were going. And my daughter and her two friends were beside themselves. Crying. Laughing. Planning their outfits.

And a bit over 24 hours later, sparkled-up, we were watching Taylor in Sydney. It was like a dream. Hard to believe. It was fascinating to witness the Swiftie phenomenon in-person. On the bus to the venue, every time a Swiftie got on, the rest of us clapped. Like, "Welcome! You made it! And you look fabulous!". (Shout-out to our good-natured bus driver, Darrell, who put up with us all.)

Waiting in the merch line, fans traded bracelets and compliments. One was even offering around deodorant (calm down - spray, not roll-on). When the sky opened up, anyone with an umbrella shared it. Everyone was smiling, wet or not.

There was this wonderful, beautiful, yes, mainly female, positive energy. Blokes were there and they were happy, too. But they were very much in the minority.

I think if we could have harnessed that positive energy and somehow spread it across the world, we'd be doing alright. Come back, Taylor, we miss you already.