It started with a single iron. A small, innocent-looking appliance that sat silently in the closet, waiting for its purpose.
But I, the intrepid ironing diarist, was not content to simply exist. I had to iron.
I took the iron, plugged it in, and... well, let's just say it didn't go well.
The steam rose like a ghost, a noxious cloud that seemed to have a life of its own. Wrinkles, the bane of my existence, began to multiply like rabbits in a war zone.
Read on for Chapter 3: The Steamy Truth