by 
The pond in Staddle
Now, I really don’t want to steal anyone’s thunder, especially not the eloquent scribes who are surely already hard at work crafting their literary masterpieces about the summer event of the year. I’m sure there’ll soon be detailed reports on splashy delights, bikini disasters, and fountains of bubbly champagne.
But I thought, why not just say a few honest words after the party? From the perspective of a man who knows what it feels like when your backside gets tired and your circulation starts raising questions after the second cocktail.
So yes, I made an early exit last night. I admit it. As a slightly older gentleman with a bit of a twinge in the knee and a natural aversion to loud music after 9 p.m., I just don’t have the same stamina as those young spring chickens bouncing around uninhibited on inflatable flamingos.
This morning, before the rooster even cleared his throat (around six), I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia—or maybe just my full bladder—and I strolled back to the pond in Stadel. Naturally, only to enjoy the peaceful morning mood… and maybe, just maybe, to let the graceful choreography of the bathing beauties replay in my mind. Strictly from an athletic standpoint, of course.
But what I found was not a serene idyll. It was a damp and chaotic postwar zone.
I stood there and could only think: Holy crap.
Brago, you wild party animal, you throw a party—fine by me. But this? This looked like Sauron himself had hosted a foam party with ten troll hordes and trampled every rule of decency straight into the mud.
I scanned the area around the pond, wondering if there were any drunken bodies still lying in the grass, or maybe Brago himself passed out between the reeds, cuddling a rubber duck. But no—no sign of him. Just empty bottles, half a sun lounger, crooked colorful umbrellas, inflatable mattresses tangled in the bushes, and a strange-smelling puddle that definitely didn’t belong there. And somewhere in the distance, a glittering pair of sunglasses shimmered like the last artifact of a fallen civilization.
As a citizen of Middle-earth with a second residence in Bree (yes, I pay my taxes), I simply cannot look the other way. I expect—no, I demand—that after such a wild spree, the area be restored to its original state. Real fish live there. Fish with feelings.
After a party, no matter how colorful and loud it may be, the place should be left clean and tidy. Anything else is an insult to flora, fauna, and common sense. I mean, does no one think of the fish? They’re now swimming between cocktail leftovers and inflatable palm trees. What happened last night wasn’t a party—it was a deluxe festival of excess. I don’t even want to imagine what went on in those bushes. “Orgy” would be putting it mildly. Disgusting. Shameful.
That’s why I hereby officially, yes publicly, want to make it very clear:
This mess must be cleaned up. Brago, clean it. Immediately.
Otherwise, I will be forced to fulfill my civic duty and personally bring this matter before the mayor of Bree.
The poor fish.
