On Monday morning, work will start again; people will remember again what day it is; the January sales will have been attacked or ignored, the information pages in new diaries filled in; eating patterns will have got back to normal.
Is this great return to the workplace greeted with sadness or general relief? I suppose it depends on where you look.
Look at Tom, who works in the electrical goods department of a big shop. He is 58 years old and has worked in the same field for 35 years. Before that, he had a few years at sea and saw the world.
This year, for the first time, he had a real holiday. Normally he should have been back in harness the day after Stephen's Day and working all the hours God sent on New Year's Eve. But this year he arranged his annual holiday to coincide with the festive times and, although he knows it didn't suit his employers at all, he had two full weeks at home.
You'd think that would make him rested and even happy to go back to work but he says he hates the very notion of it. It was a marvellous holiday, he can't bear to think it's nearly over.
What did he do? Well, what didn't he do?
He used to go downstairs about 8 a.m. and make tea and toast every morning and bring it on a tray up for his wife and himself. His wife hasn't been well over the past couple of years, you see. Then he'd get back into the bed and they'd watch a video. Imagine, at that time in the morning!
Then, about 10.30 a.m., he'd have a bath and come down and they'd have grilled bacon and tomatoes and about midday the grandchildren would come over, two from one family and two from another, and he'd take them for an outing. And they all seemed to have much more to say to him and got on much better with him now that he wasn't tired and half asleep in the evening - which was the only time he ever saw them before because they didn't come on Sundays. Their parents were delighted because Grandad would take the children to the park or the shops or on a bus trip or to cash their book tokens, or to have a hamburger. And then he'd bring them home and they'd play games until his son and daughter came to pick them up.
And he and his wife had cooked several nights for friends of their own age, nothing fancy but it was lovely to be able to have people to the house without nodding off and worrying about being up and in your right mind at 7.10 a.m., to leave the house.
No, sadly, he couldn't take early retirement: there was nothing set up as regards a pension that would make that a possibility. No, he'd have to wait seven years until he is 65. And it was really hard to be going in there again on Monday morning. They're all much younger than him and they have plans and schemes for what they want to do. They would think it was pathetic if they knew how he had spent his Christmas holidays and how he would like to spend his life. So of course, he won't tell them.
And don't we all have to work? The world doesn't get by by sitting at home watching videos in bed. And by Wednesday, it will be as if this magic holiday never happened.
Look at this woman, Suzy, I know in New York. She works in a big publishing company, and traditionally it closes only for a couple of days, December 25th and 26th, and then again for one day on January 1st. Otherwise, it was business as usual. This was the American Way.
Sometimes, Suzy used to telephone and fax people in Europe from her desk over our somewhat lengthier holidays and, finding nobody there, she would believe the whole continent had closed down.
Another aspect of the American Way is this company's policy of throwing a huge and lavish party for the employees. Management felt the more shrimp and lobster you offered, and the more colourful the drinks in the tall, crystal glasses, the more loved and cherished the employees would feel, and the harder they would work to remain part of such a wonderful organisation.
But this year, for the first time, a lot of the thirtysomethings in marriages and relationships, and even some of them in second homes in the country, asked if they could have time off in lieu of the party. And management did the sums and made the revolutionary decision to close for 10 days. Suzy is demented. This has not been her tradition. She is dying to get back in there but the place is closed to her. She has a desk full of work to do, a Rolodex of calls to make, a drawer full of manuscripts to read, a screen full of email to cope with.
No, she didn't have a laptop to take home, and what kind of a sad nerd could be seen hauling boxes full of manuscripts home to read in her apartment? But she feels like the days will never end. What do people do with all these empty days?
She goes to the gym, of course. But it's hard working-out on one of those machines and all the time thinking about all that will be there to greet her when she gets in on Monday at 7 a.m.
Yes, she has been out walking in Manhattan, and gone to a few first-run movies she mightn't have had time to go to otherwise: she has got a sharp new hairdo and put up more bookshelves and another CD holder on the walls. And of course, she does meet friends - don't get the idea she's some kind of workaholic recluse. But to be brutally frank, people with careers don't need holidays like this. It makes them uneasy. Her friends feel that way too. And it's not as if anyone over-indulges in food and drink any more . . .
She'll know next year: do some advance planning, gradually take home the files she'll need, get a laptop and a couple of disks. That's if they don't all vote to go back to the old way. Who needs more than three days off when you're an adult?