My weekend has passed grr-manically in dishpanwashing and homeworkbadgering and coldwalkshivering and windchillfactoring and badheadachegrumbling.
But now I have before me an hour and a photograph of skaters on the moat around our city.
It is 1890. A brick and earth wall rises beyond the moat. It is white with snow and is many feet thick.
Safely behind the wall I see the ancient jail, the ancient torture house, the ancient Brotherhood of Saint George.
Outside the city wall on the frozen moat, people glide. A few of the skaters are men or boys in narrow pants but most are women with hems that reach the ice or girls in shorter affairs. They skate alone.
The plane on which the skaters skate, the frozen moat, is buried under highway now. There is no moat and there is no wall on either side of the old stone gate into the city.