'Do you think she's attractive?' my wife says.
How are you supposed to answer that?
The woman in question has long blonde hair and wears a quilted green jacket. It's a bright day. The first one we've had in years. She wears big sun-glasses to protect her eyes. The freshness of the day adds colour to her cheeks. All in all, she looks dressed for the ski slopes in some desirable Alpine fashion resort rather than the local municipal tip.
The men who run the place, in their hi-viz jackets certainly appreciate the glamour walking through their dump.
With me, however, they remain professionally rude. They watch me stagger across the yard hugging an old oven to my chest like an old-time bank robber making off with the safe.
They stand and watch me, my legs bending like a clown's as spatially challenged old ladies get under my feet carrying paltry sized pieces of rubbish from their cars.
They stand and watch me, tottering like a drunken monkey as someone decides to help things along by trying to reverse their car into me.
When I reach the far-side, a grizzled man in a hi-viz vest tells me that ovens need to be kept separate from the other metal in the bin and that I need to 'take it over there, mate.'
He points to where I've just come from.
Meanwhile, three young men help the damsel of the dump carry a baked-bean can.
'Do you think she's attractive?' my wife says again, as I collapse into the car.
I turn the key in the ignition, say nothing.