That roller thing at the top has triangular blades like 1/4-inch-thick pie servers. It's about the size of a 55-gallon drum. The operator (with great finesse) rolls it back and forth in each of four huge truck-length dumpsters, crushing down what's inside. Impressive performance: it would crush a human body to the thickness of an ironing board in one pass. The woman who manages the dump gave us both (customary for the region amongst friends) cheek-kiss hellos (her left, her right, her left). We are thrilled to be accepted at the local dump, because recycling waste is central to life in France! ¶ Then we cruised over to the realtor to sign a bunch of papers, dropping the price on our OTHER house in France by 21,000 Euros; it's been on the market going on 6 years with only one crazy low-ball offer. We're trying to find the irresistible price point; it's a big house. ¶ Then off to Millau, France's (maybe the world's) premiere glove-making town; gloves sold in Paris are made here. It's a little more than an hour drive's away; we entered snow country. It had been maybe 15 years since our last visit to the same small shop, where everything's made by hand. I'd lost half a pair and needed something new. The owner greeted us and helped us with sizing. (It should be so tight you can barely get it on; gloves stretch.) ¶ Then rushed home in time for a 7:30 fundraising event in a nearby town, the occasion benefiting the local English cricket club in our part of France (the guy who runs our favorite wine shop here captains the team). Elvis never looked better. The night featured a band playing hits from the 60s, 70s, 80s ~ two French, three Brits. And they were better than just decent. Pretty much everyone there was a Brit transplant. You just didn't talk about Brexit. We danced instead. Loads of people danced. And drank. And ate interesting catered food (including mini-burger sliders) made by an American couple who've moved to the region.