Mysterious old men and washing machines

Perhaps the greatest disadvantage of my current abode is it's paucity of appliances, most notably a washing machine. It's a relatively minor nuisance, given that there two Laundromats within a hundred meters. Most often I simply drop my washing off and return to collect it precisely 22 minutes and 40 seconds later. I've got the timing perfected so I can usually walk through the door just as the final spin cycle clicks to a halt and collect my washing in the minimum amount of time - this is particularly important to me, since I find Laundromats to be soul-sappingly depressing places in which I endeavour to spend as little time as humanly possible.

Today, though, the washing machine I'd picked (third from the right, instead of my usual choice of third from the left - someone else was using it, grrr), seemed to have developed an unfortunate attachment to my washing. When I tried to open the door on the machine I found that it refused to to budge. Tugging a little harder caused the machine to emit a series of disconcerting creaks and groans which discouraged me from attempting to use brute force to open it. I jiggled the handle about for a little while longer, but to no avail. Unsure of what to do next I sat down crossed legged in front of the washing machine. I waved at my laundry to make sure it was ok. It waved back, apparently unperturbed or unaware of it's predicament. As I sat there contemplating my future existence in a world without clean underwear, I was caught unawares by an old man who'd crept up behind me. He looked down at me, smiling a quizzical sort of smile I'm certain I've mention of in novels by Terry Pratchett, and gently tapped one corner of the washing machine. The door sprung open and my laundry flopped into my lap. I thanked him and he nodded at me and walked on.

By now I really shouldn't be surprised to note that these things really do happen in real life...