It was a hot summer and Burtdad had come to visit in his little french van. We'd spent part of the day waiting for trams and finally reached the old market around 2pm. Seeing as he hadn't prepared, Burtdad's thirst got the better of him and he laid down a formal demand for a swig of my water.

Being a good son, I unquestioningly provided my bottle and watched happily as he went to work on it, not in the least bit irritated by what I considered an infringement on a gentleman's right to a private water supply.

The market was open air and covered a reasonable area. We perused.

Every stall was chocked full of useless crap and we explored heartily, desperate to find just one thing of interest, or even use, to justify the effort we'd made. As we did, BD came across an old street sign and considered adding it to his collection. That was until he asked me how much it was in english money. We had a good laugh about that and were still doing so when we came to the ninja section. It was stocked with nanchaku, shuriken and knives, all of the crappiest quality known to man.

One of us just had to buy something.

However, since I already had a respectable armory, it was Burtdad who splashed out, bagging himself a drop molded knuckle duster, which he'd intended to take home and be proud of. He tucked it in his pocket and so began the old kung fu conversation that every child has had immediately after watching Jackie Chan on the tv.

Kung fu's easy, it turns out. You actually know most of the techniques after the movie, which, for some reason, always seems to feature Burt Kwok. We knew exactly how we'd deal with those unknown would-be attackers, and this knuckle duster would be instrumental. We were safe, now, after all these years, and boy, did we know it.

The next day, while I was tinkering in Burt, I noticed something was missing. I'd lined up five fuel cans at the back doors, ready for filling, but now... there were only three. It was odd, because the only person who'd been nearby all morning was Burtdad, and he couldn't possibly.

I strolled over to ask him if he'd seen the missing cans, and he rolled out his confused act. You know the one, with the concerned face and "hmm, where could those cans be?" look. I suspected, at this point, I might be looking at an inside job. Not to let on, I bought the act and returned to Burt to continue tinkering, but in the back of my mind, cogs were whirring, and a plan was brewing.

After dinner, we went to the rehearsal room for what BD calls "a knock" (it's what the rest of the world calls a jam). We played some of his go-to songs and a bit of improv for good luck. The studio was near the house, so it was easy to come and go. And after we'd exhausted the set list, we headed out for a coffee and a walk in the park.

As the day began to cool, and t-shirts became under-garments, once again, I commented on BD's exceptional van security, which he'd fully invented and manufactured at home, using rusty off-cuts from his epic bed fail and the least possible welding wire. The best part was the padlock. I consulted with him on the price and it didn't come close to exceeding the largest british coin. Nor did it look as though it would.

By way of demonstration, he removed the lock, which required either of: the key, or a certain type of twist. Those were the advertised options, anyway, but I suspected a good thump might also be compatible. With the lock removed, the rusty bit slid off and the doors were free to open. I kept him talking for this part, and he fell into my trap like a helpless fly. There, before us, in the broad light of day, sitting casually in the back of the Burtdadmobile, my missing fuel cans. You bastard.

I enjoyed watching as he groped around in his mind, trying in vain to string together some kind of excuse for his crime. But we both knew he was rumbled and the game was already over.

Or was it?

After restoring my property to its rightful place and making sure he saw me lock and alarm the van (I like the pseudo-drama), I set about administering my search for stolen goods; a process that couldn't rightly be objected to by the guilty party. I checked his tool box for tools that didn't come from India, and all the while, in the background, I heard him, still trying to string together an explanation, but it fell on deaf ears.

And then I found it. The punishment that fit the crime.

The Burt-duster.

And the punishment was so perfect that just last week, he brought it up again.

Beautiful.