Its the survivors party , the day after. The tent is empty, and smelling of swilly fermented drink of all kinds and bodily fluids. The bar is cleaned up and looking mostly like it did two days ago before the madness. The chairs are back at the tables. The friends and family are milling about. The fiddlers are tuning up and the bodhran player quietly tips his drum on the side of the stage.
Everyone has a certain dazed squinty eyed gaze about them, taking it all in but ignoring everything. We all ponder the madness. We wonder what we missed, and re-live the horrors we witnessed, but speak of nothing. The beers are consumed at a reasonable pace not with the reckless abandon of yesterday. The dark creamy stout tastes as it always does but the yellow american junk tastes sour and foul, a result of the over indulgence only a few hours earlier.
The band starts to play a familiar slip jig. All is right with the world, for at least another 364 days.