Although my work as a spy is generally successful, I have to be wary of the external scars I bear (as opposed to the internal ones). It's particularly aggravating to have such a scar right on the face.



As a child, there was a moment in which I was playing in a playground. My mother was indoors, likely watching Guiding Light or some other 80s television soap opera. Little did she know that Pro-Marcos Filipino operatives were afoot, with sinister plans to smite a budding spy-on-the-make.

When you think about it, a children's playground can be a complete death trap, especially as they were set up in the Reagan era. That merry-go-round with the metal bars? A source of repeated concussions. A swingset? Push the kids hard enough and watch them fly to their little deaths. The sandbox? A source of blindness, if not a biohazard as the neighbourhood cats would often use it as a common litterbox.

These particular operatives decided to utilise the baby-swing, a particularly brutal means of violence upon a child. Comprised of hard plastic and metal, the baby-swing could easily become a pendulum of doom when loaded with a fat little bairn, as this one was. All that was needed was to convince me to meander in front of the swing's path, and it would act as a baby-laden wrecking ball against my skull. It would appear as an unfortunate accident. It was brilliant. So somehow, I was convinced to wander in front of the damn thing (I hadn't quite honed my skills just yet). However, I did an odd thing and turned my head, so instead of causing brain injury, it caught me in the fucking eye. Brain injury was averted, much to the chagrin of these Filipino operatives, who feigned concern as I stumbled across the street semi-blind, howling in bloodied pain.

Although the scar isn't quite readily apparent, I was once refused tea in a cafe in Bucharest because the waiter recognised me as the individual responsible for his uncle's goat being in jail. Being a woman of international renown can have its drawbacks.