The first I knew about the referendum result was at 4.45am last Friday when I was woken by the noise of people talking outside my bedroom window.

There was something about the erudite vowel sounds that made my half-asleep brain think these weren’t the usual nocturnal neighbourhood ne’er-do-wells.

I was just drifting back to sleep when my husband’s mobile rang. Fumbling, he picked up the call. I could hear every word.

SARAH VINE: It’s not that I didn’t think Leave could win. It was just that they were up against a rival campaign with all the money, all the power and all the scare stories

‘Michael?’ an excited, if slightly weary, voice said. ‘Michael, guess what? We’ve won!’ Thus began the strangest, maddest and, without a doubt, most surreal few days of my life.

What I thought would bring to an end to months of uncertainly and anxiety — polling day itself — has, in fact, turned out to be merely the start of it.

It’s not that I didn’t think Leave could win. It was just that they were up against a rival campaign with all the money, all the power and all the scare stories.

I was perfectly prepared — and would have completely understood — if, in the privacy of the polling booth, the majority of the British people had preferred to err on the side of caution and vote for the status quo.

Because, given Michael’s high-profile role in the Leave campaign, that means he — we — are now charged with implementing the instructions of 17 million people

Instead, they showed incredible bravery. They ignored all the threats and lies, and voted according to their principles. Which, from where I’m standing, makes the result even more terrifying.

Because, given Michael’s high-profile role in the Leave campaign, that means he — we — are now charged with implementing the instructions of 17 million people. And that is an awesome responsibility.

So as I lay there in my somewhat befuddled state that morning, triumphalism was the last thing on my mind. Or my husband’s.

There was a short pause while he put on his glasses. ‘Gosh,’ he said. ‘I suppose I had better get up.’

I went downstairs to make some tea. The place was a bit of a mess since we’d had some friends — a mixture of Remainers and Leavers — over for supper the night before.

Michael had retired at 10.30pm, before the first results, worn out by the campaign and keen to get some rest.

I’d stayed up until about midnight, then left our guests to it. Judging by the general chaos, it looked as though they had hung around a good while.

I put the kettle on, began collecting wine glasses and loading the dishwasher. Upstairs, the shower sprang into life.

I filled two mugs with our strongest brew and headed back upstairs. A morning like any other in the Gove household.

Except it wasn’t. As I set the tea down on the bedside table, I tweaked the bedroom curtain aside and my suspicions were confirmed: several teams of reporters were waiting outside.

A quick flick of the remote control revealed a surreal scene: our house was live on Sky TV.

Michael reappeared, towelling the water from his hair. By now his phone was buzzing and beeping like a demented frog.

‘You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off,’ I said, in my best (i.e. not very good) Michael Caine Italian Job accent. In other words, you’ve really torn it now.

Michael Gove poses with his wife Sarah Vine after voting in the EU referendum at their local polling station

Then my phone pinged. It was a friend warning me of the perils of live television. ‘Whatever you do, don’t do a Cherie Blair,’ she wrote. ‘Concealer, blusher, eyeliner, lipstick: the works.’

The next few hours are a blur. Michael set off to meet with his team, and I set about the normal business of getting the kids up and ready for school.

As fate would have it, last Friday was ‘take your daughter to work day’ at my eldest’s school, and the plan had been for her and two classmates to go to Michael’s office at the Department of Justice.

This now seemed somewhat impractical, so I hastily arranged to take them to my office instead. On the way, we stopped at Sainsbury’s to pick up a packed lunch for my youngest.

By the time we got back to the car, coveted chicken and sweetcorn sandwich secured, the Prime Minister had resigned.

I felt as though I had fallen through a rabbit hole — lost in a strange land where nothing made sense any more. This was absolutely, categorically not meant to happen.

David Cameron was not supposed to go. This was not what this referendum was about; that was not why Michael backed Leave.

This was a debate about Britain’s membership of the EU, not a vote for or against the Prime Minister.

More than ever before, I felt the agony of what the business of politics had done to the people at the heart of all of this: how old friends had been wrenched apart in the most brutal of ways.

There can be little time for reflection, though, when you have three lively 13-year-olds on your hands. In some ways, they were my salvation on that momentous, sunny morning.

There is something so irrepressibly silly about girls that age. Their giggling is non-stop, their enthusiasm and excitement infectious. Life goes on, you realise, and politics isn’t everything.

Over the past few days, I have tried to make this my mantra. To resist this feeling of walls closing in.

But it is very tricky when the machine just keeps rolling on.

In a sane world, everyone would now have a week off to come to terms with the new political landscape, and have a proper, rational think about what to do next.

But this is not a sane world. As one friend put it, you know something’s big when the resignation of the Prime Minister is the fourth item on the evening news.

And tomorrow, not even seven days after the referendum itself, the nominations for his replacement have to be in.

Sometimes a week isn’t just a long time in politics, it’s a whole new dimension.

In the end, the most important lesson is this: whatever the world throws at you, good or bad, what matters most is time spent with those we love — the simple joys that family life can bring

Helping my husband make the right decisions in such a short space of time, on very little sleep and under such stressful conditions has been hard enough.

Maintaining some semblance of normality for the children has been harder still.

But what’s been hardest of all — at times impossible, if I’m honest — has been dealing with the transformation of Project Fear into Project How Dare You.

This referendum was always going to be a close call. One side was always going to be disappointed.

What I had not anticipated, though, was quite how bitterly.

The way Remain campaigners have reacted to being unexpectedly on the losing side has shocked even a Twitter-hardened old hack like me.

I think it’s because many of the most passionate Remainers are well-educated, articulate people in positions of authority, used to getting their own way.

Unlike your average troll, they don’t rely on blunt invective to wound their opponents. Their anger takes the form of keenly worded, rapier-sharp attacks that cut deep.

Almost overnight, those of us on the winning side suddenly found ourselves re-cast as knuckle-dragging thugs, small-minded Little Englanders whose short-sighted bigotry had brought the nation to its knees, while making sweet Italian waitresses cry and stopping small Polish children from going to school.

Because of the immense power of the internet and social media, once a Twitterstorm reaches critical mass — which now happens at an alarming speed — it starts to become as real as thunder and lightning.

In a matter of hours, everything sunny about human nature seems to have been sucked out of the atmosphere and you are drenched in little 140-character balls of bitterness.

It’s hard to explain quite what it feels like, but imagine walking into a room in a lovely new dress and having every single person turn, point, throw back their heads with laughter and tell you it looks hideous.

You’d never wear it again, would you? In fact, chances are you’d rip it up and throw it straight in the bin. There have been moments over the past few days when I’ve felt like that dress.

I have seen it happen to others — celebrities, sportspeople, household names — but I’d never imagined it happening to me.

Such is the personal price of my husband standing up for his principles.

But even as some succumb to bitterness, so many others remind me of humanity’s infinite capacity for kindness.

Support has come from the most unlikely and unexpected quarters.

Neighbours who have put kind notes through the letter-box; fellow dog-walkers who have seen me looking weary out on Wormwood Scrubs and come to offer their support (and spare dog treats); countless Daily Mail readers who have written the most wonderful letters.

Best of all, though, have been the children.

Our son, who, at the height of the hysteria, when the phones were going mad and everyone’s head was spinning, led us all in a surprisingly therapeutic game of Monopoly.

Our daughter, who, when the reporters were refusing to take no for an answer, managed to make them melt away like snow in springtime.

And then there are the dogs, of course, who don’t care what any of the mad humans in their lives get up to — just as long as there’s a walk involved.

In the end, the most important lesson is this: whatever the world throws at you, good or bad, what matters most is time spent with those we love — the simple joys that family life can bring.