NOW THE CARNIVAL IS OVER

The smell of streets is of stale beer, decaying cooked chicken and moldering bread and paper. The odor lasts a day or two as the carnival atmosphere evaporates, is washed away by pressurized water driving debris into the gutter as stalls, stages and barbecues are dismantled, and wooden boarding removed from the shop windows.

 The carnival is now only a dream, people once part of a dancing throng are now scattered, isolated individuals again; they wake wondering was it all true, did I really dance in the streets, were the people really that happy and friendly, people from every conceivable race and background jostling together, laughing, singing, blowing whistles?
 
The carnival is dangerous and those in positions of authority have never been at ease with it, smacking too much of spontaneity, a little taste of revolution; the people taking control of the streets, defying attempts to cajole and coral, bursting into side streets, overflowing into gardens, dancing on the roofs and window ledges. Politicians and civil servants breathe a sigh of relief as once again they can count the cost only in financial terms, the cost of cleaning up.  

 
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