Many, many years ago, in my teens, we had a family holiday in Portugal. My father hired a local to take us out for the day. He teased my younger brother all day, making 'donkey ears' at him and at many of the black-clad women we passed as we drove through teeny villages with even teenier roads.
Amongst other places, he took us to a modern church to show us the guarded tomb of one of Portugal's great and good (we never did find out who). Upon leaving, our driver collapsed in tears of laughter over the bonnet of his car. One by one, we spotted an ancient old man carrying a wicker basket with grey smoke pouring out of it.
Unsurprisingly, this man got increasingly annoyed as we all failed to hold back our less than sympathetic gales of laughter. Our driver eventually managed to let him know what was going on. He up-ended the contents of his bag and proceeded to tap dance on them to put out the flames. It didn't help any that he was wearing T-shirt, Bermuda style khaki shorts and 'Desert Welly' sandals. Needless to say, we were less than useless on the help front!
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