Some things, you can get over. Others, not so much. This one goes back a way, and some of us are having a hard time letting go. Let me explain.

Back in '17, I took a nice road trip with Burtdad. It was just the two of us, and we were having a good time. Burtdad was controlling the music system like a proper dictator, deeming everything I played to be 'modern shite', whilst bringing to the table nothing newer than 1975. Meanwhile, I was taking my laptop and camera everywhere I went, thanks to Burtdad's epic security system, which consisted of a bath plug chain wrapped around the door handle. It was good times.

Since Burtdad's idea of cleaning cutlery is wiping it with a filthy rag and then putting it on the carpet we walk on, I'd opted for a private cutlery stash. And since he'd definitely forget things like bread knives and chopping boards, while remembering things like dedicated bass amps, I thought it might be useful to bring a few things along.

The Bread Knife Thing

Here's how it went down.

I took the bread knife from my kitchen and placed it in my backpack, along with my laptop, camera and secret cutlery stash. The backpack went to the van. We hit the road. Said knife was deployed on a daily basis, and played a fundamental role in our bread enjoyment. It was a great thing. We were both happy for the bread knife.

But one of us, it seems, was a little more fond of the bread knife than he was willing to admit. When I returned home, after the trip, I realized it was missing from my bag. Now, Burtdad has a history of kleptomania, as has been remarked upon in such stories as Burtdad's Knuckle Duster, so I kind of expected something like this. However, during the online confrontation that took place, shortly after my shocking loss has finally sunk in, I noticed something on my couch. A nice Harley Davidson t-shirt seemed to have been left behind by a careless dadster.

Justice was served.

But the bitter feeling of mistrust remained, all the same, during every encounter. The dank smell of crime lingers on every word. I sleep with one eye on my cutlery drawer, when he's around, never sure what he might take a liking to, next. It's a full-time job to secure the place I'm supposed to be offering as a home from home. Harsh is the night.

You get the idea.

Anyway, here's what happened in my last visit...

The Towel Fiasco

"I say. Don't nick my salubrious towel, will you, son?"
Well, come on. I wasn't going to, but now I kind of had to.
"What would I want with your towel, you loopy old fart?"
But the plan was already in motion.

I'd leave it on the back of the bathroom door for a day or two, so he could see that I wasn't the slightest bit bothered about hiding and stealing the damn thing, and then I'd move it to the washing line to dry. This would provide a plausible reason for its sudden disappearance, should it raise any alarms. Passing the test, I'd then move it to Burt, where it would remain until I returned home. It was genius. And it worked.

Sadly, the victory was hollow, as I'd never actually wanted the towel, and now that BD had noticed it missing and immediately accused me (which was both rude and completely reasonable), I'd lost interest in it. Now it was just another item in my cupboard.

But only a few weeks later, whilst out on another jolly, BD turned up at the Burt-Cave, where he set about searching for the towel, as though it actually mattered. And, to his surprise (mainly at what he called "the utter nerve of it"), he immediately found it on the bathroom radiator, where I was (and I quote) "rubbing it in his face". I wasn't, obviously, because I'd moved on. But that's BD for you.

But then the tables turned again.

For the next few days, BD smugly remarked about how he'd "just washed in the van and dried with his luxo beach towel", and how he would go to the van to fetch beers, as I couldn't be trusted not to steal back the beach towel. Pathetic. As if.

Of course, at one point, I did find myself in possession of his keys, and I won't pretend the thought didn't cross my mind, just to wind him up. But I resisted, mainly because I couldn't be bothered to cross the road. Naturally, I made a point of telling him how little I cared. But it didn't stop him from remaining protective of the now-legendary towel for the duration of his stay. And that's why what happened next is so funny.

In his determination to prevent me from getting my grubby hands on his beloved green towel, he had blinded himself to the fact that he had accidentally left his red towel in my washing machine. Of course, when I saw this, I forgot to mention it. And now, I am, once again, in possession of Burtdad's towel. I think it complements my lime-green bathroom tiles, don't you?

One:Nil. The game is young.

The bread knife is forgotten. Long live the towel of destiny.