You know what the worst part of ironing is? It's not the heat, nor the hours lost, nor the shirt that insists on creasing in the wrong place. It’s doing all that and then… nobody seeing it. It’s like preparing a Michelin-starred dinner and eating it alone, in the dark, in a room without windows.
Now imagine the opposite: every sheet stretched tight, every pillowcase immaculate, every towel looking like it came out of a hotel ad — all photographed as if it were the centerpiece of a luxury campaign. And then, pub...