The Bag

Nothing about an arrival is more visible than luggage. A wheeled case says someone is checking in; a folding table under an arm says exactly what it is; an oversized holdall looks like a move. So the therapist carries one soft bag on one shoulder, of roughly the size people carry a work computer in, in a colour nobody would remember afterwards. In a lobby it reads as a guest's work bag, and nobody looks at it twice.

What it holds

• Fresh linens to lay over the hotel's bed.
• Her own towels, enough that the hotel's stay folded.
• Oil, decanted into plain containers and kept warm on the way.
• A waterproof layer where the booked format calls for it.
• Gel for a nuru reservation, the heaviest item the bag ever carries.
• A sealed section for everything used, which goes home with her.

What it leaves out

No candles: every hotel ceiling carries a smoke detector. No speaker, because most guests prefer the room's own quiet or their own music. No folding table, because the bed is the working surface in a hotel room. The guest need not supply anything the bag already covers, and in particular need not ask housekeeping for extra towels, which is itself a small note on a room's record.

Why a guest might care

The bag is the reason a visit costs a hotel room nothing. Everything that arrives in it leaves in it, so the linen trolley the following morning finds only what the hotel put there. The journal piece the weight of the bag explains why it is packed the way it is, and the morning side of the same thinking is under housekeeping.

None of this is extra on the ladder. The bag comes with every reservation at the same price, from the first hour to an overnight.