Three washers, three dryers, shared by the entire street; and you return every fifteen minutes to see if the one rude neighbor has removed her things which prevent the rest of us from using the machines, frustration growing toward a full-tilt low-blood-sugar anger attack, until you pass her running down the sidewalk toward the laundry room with a sheepish and apologetic look on her face which says, "Ooops," and you can't help but laugh at the sheer charm of her implied apology.