From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 166)

Gods, but I hate being ill!

I’ve been laid up before, having been stabbed, shot, and punched so hard in the ribs that I had to lie more or less still for a whole week, but all of these have given me some kind of strange satisfaction. Not the pain, you understand, rather the marks of doing my duty. Usually, the other fellow comes off worse, and I feel pride in that, but I also feel a certain amount of pride watching a scar form on my skin. I admit, I don’t particularly fancy a scar on the face, although some men manage to wear that with a rakish charm. Obviously, such a thing would make me stand out – and a spy never wants to do that. And, yes, I admit, I am a little vain about my looks.

Now, scars on the body can be an endless source of fascination to one’s lovers. I’ve enjoyed making up the most ridiculous stories about them. Not boastful you understand, but generally comical. ‘Oh yes, I got that one arm wrestling a giant panda. Generally, they’re quite good natured bears, but I must have caught that particular one on a bad day. Didn’t hurt it you understand, just nasty big claws though.’ Or some such nonsense.

When I did a bit of nude modelling, I had to convince the artist not to include the scars. Some of them are quite distinctive. My badges of honour I call them. There’s a couple upon which it’s really rather pleasant to encourage a lovely lady to trace along their length with her dainty fingers. Definitely gets things moving – as it were.

But, on this occasion, I’m not injured. I have no badge of honour. I’m stuck at White Orchards snuffling and sniffling like a schoolboy. I’ve roamed the wide world, fallen in rivers, climbed icy heights with far too little clothing, and never a moment of illness from my adventures. I come to see my goddaughter and within a day she’s given me some wretched child malaise that has sent my sinuses into overdrive and my temperature soaring. I’m in bed with a hot water bottle, shivering with the fever. Even Jack is appalled at my weakness and has absconded to the kitchen to beg for sausages. I only hope to goodness that word doesn’t get back to the department that I’m laid up in bed with the sniffles. I’ll damn well never live it down!