You have an ironing board set up somewhere in the living room. Next to it, the iron is on, puffing steam like a grumpy dragon. Outside, Lisbon is roasting at 35 degrees. Inside, the temperature rises another two or three degrees — those two or three that turn home comfort into an involuntary sauna.
Now think: how much time did you spend ironing last week? Two hours? Three? And how many times did you curse the shirt that decided to wrinkle just to annoy you?
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