Introduction: 37 degrees, an ironing board, and zero patience
Lisbon is boiling. Literally. Thermometers are already reading 37°C and the only thing anyone wants to do is spread a towel on the balcony and pretend the heat doesn't exist — preferably with a cold drink in hand and the fan on full blast. But someone decided to leave a pile of clean laundry staring at you, waiting for the iron. And the only thing those clothes will achieve, if you insist on ironing them, is turning you into a puddle of sweat ... (total 10079 chars)