When I became Bar Mitzvah, the big day finally arrived.

Not the aliyah.Not the speeches.Certainly not the fountain pen.

Anyone who knows me knows this: once you get me started on guitars, I won’t stop talking.My neighbors can confirm. Usually around 2:00 a.m.

As the gift envelopes arrived, I began a quiet, highly illegal side project.A tenner here.A twenty there.

I was laundering my own Bar Mitzvah money—breaking larger notes into smaller ones so the cards all felt the same.

You can’t leave a card empty, can you?Well, technically you can.I did.

Later, my mum started writing down names for thank-you notes. Every now and then she’d look up from a card and ask,“Is that all they gave?”

I nodded.Calm.Agreeable.Innocent.

Once—just once—she gave me a look that suggested she was on to my creative accounting.But my face held.Crisis averted.The Guitar Fund was secure.

At least once a month, I’d head down to Denmark Street in........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)