It is 7 a.m., and reportedly it's 7 degrees already. There's no frost on the ground. The sun is already way above the treetops. It is higher than my fifth floor apartment, and it has forced its way into my living room, spilled across the corridor, and dribbled into my kitchen. The sky is so clear I can see up into space. I'm going out onto my balcony in my thick robe with The Master and Margarita and a cup of Sumatra Extra Bold. Such will be the weekend routine for the next four months.
