I had it all planned.
The scar on my knee wouldn't go unnoticed. I could already see myself at parties talking to an attentive audience about the circumstances of the accident.
Ambushes in the jungle, heroic actions in the midst of devastating earthquakes, desperate rescues of tearful young girls, crocodile bites, bullets flying around, the trouble past of a soldier of fortune.
Except that now that the staples are gone the scar doesn't look like much. The scratch of a kid who fell off his bike, an infected mosquito bite, a clumsy burn from a summer night barbecue in Wexford.
It's hardly going to impress anyone in Los Angeles, is it ?