So I went to that memorial service today!

It was lovely to see old friends, and family; the sheer number of people that turned up was immense. Hundreds and hundreds. There were some lovely eulogies given, and not much crying to be heard. A few sniffles; but lots of big grins as those that attended were dragged back through memory lane to remember the deceased.

Tomorrow’s the funeral proper. I have to wear a skull cap (kippah, yarmulke). I’m a bit excited! I’m wondering if they hand them out at the door: ‘Please, take a skull cap. Smoked salmon’s on the left as you go in. Don’t forget to cry a bit, and mutter in Yiddish when it’s appropriate.’

I kid, I kid…

Anyway, I had to shave today, as a half-beard just ‘wouldn’t be acceptable in today’s day and age’ (gotta love my mother). I didn’t ask her when it would’ve been acceptable…”Back in my day’ would be the answer, I imagine.

Being the camera whore that I am, I requisitioned a new set of photos to comemorate my new beardless — but still stubbly — visage. As my friend Daniel put it: ‘You look about 10 years younger… about 24…’

Just a small variety of the poses I will assume when a camera is pointed at me.

Below is the ‘Oh my, is that really Jesus? He’s early!’ look.

Are we thinking: a) better with beard, b) stubble is good or c) remove the stubble? (Not that I’ll actually listen to your opinions, but my mum always told me it was good to at least pretend that I care)

Please, fast forward 2 months.

As mind’s eye pans over the green, leafy British countryside the rapid staccato percussion of a helicopter’s blades can be heard. As we grow closer, the chopper comes into view. Hovering, its illuminating search light pointed down at the ground.

On the ground firemen and other emergency-response types move around quickly, with purpose. An a-frame and winch is assembled, with a taut steel cable running from it down into a pit as dark as pitch.

One of the firemen activates the winch. After what seems like an eternity of grinding gears and the sound of steel plinking tightly a hirsute… thing is hauled out of the hole and quickly lifted onto a stretcher. Half man, half something, he — it — blinks in the bright lights.

As he is dragged away from you and into the back of an ambulance only one thing is heard, a slight mania in his voice: “I can lick my own elbow you know!”

…

And that, kind sirs, is my epic escape from the bunker in Day 37.

Below is the next installment of Day 37. The beardless aftermath that picks up the story again, a week or month after Sebastian has been rescued from a bunker that he was trapped in for 3 months. If you haven’t seen Chapters 1-3 of Day 37, I suggest you watch them first, as this one won’t make much sense without the back story!

A few of you doubted that I actually left the house with my ‘dual-beard’ setup.

To those of little faith, I give you: Sebastian goes to the post office.

Not sure why all of the whites have been replaced with pinks — I guess my grandmother’s camera is going through its dying throes.

Afterward, I walked into the post office and stepped up to the little booth with my head down. ‘I need to send something to a friend of mine’ I said rather noncommittally. Then I raised my head and fixed a grim stare at her, grinning with just the evil side of my face. I have to say, she coped rather well! She quite visibly recoiled, a look of concerned disgust on her face, but recovered quickly. There was a quick intake of breath, and she shocked me with what she said next: ”Sure, just put your package on the scales… turn around, and leave this place of sanctity, you vile beast!’

And so I did.

I bet they have a picture of me under their desk now — a grainy, black and white security camera one.  Right next to the panic button.