Introducing . . . Emma Suddaby

Well, the Star has finally lost the plot, writes our new blogger Emma Suddaby, and asked me to share my highs, lows - and various murky places inbetween - with readers . . . and it’s my pleasure.

If the face looks familiar, you may have seen me among nominees for this year’s Star Woman of the Year award - see above - furtively lurking in the line-up of incredible, admirable Shropshire ladies, all of whom had struggled and sacrificed much in their own lives, to improve someone else’s.

And then there was me! All I’ve done is try to keep my head above water in life’s great Sink or Swim, and then win a dream flying scholarship with the charity Flying Scholarships for the Disabled, including 40 hours of flight training in a light aircraft.

The charity aims for scholars to achieve solo flight; and remembering that many aren’t able to get dressed solo, never mind pilot an aeroplane, it explains how the ripples of that achievement radiate infinitely through their lives.

I’m no exception - my scholarship returned to me the confidence I’d lost somewhere, back along the winding corridors of chronic disease. For me, though, a taste of solo flight could never be enough and I’m training now for a National Private Pilot’s Licence . . . watch this space!

If you’re wondering how I wangled that one, I have aggressive, destructive Rheumatoid Arthritis. At 22, I woke with a sore knee, which rapidly progressed from aches and pains, to this harsh and all-encompassing condition. Five years on, I was advised I’d need a hip replacement.

Now aged 27, RA or no RA, the last thing I expected to be booking myself in for was a hip replacement, being more interested in cocktails, killer-heels and dancing round my handbag. But, realising my options, I had the op.

I was just reaching for my mini-dress and sparkly shoes when doctors told me I now needed a knee replacement (heels in the wardrobe, slippers out!) and had barely recovered when the other knee began to pine and they replaced that too, followed by my elbow.

Joining in the race to go bionic, “normal” is now three-to-five ops per year, though I’ve only had two this year. I’m keeping surgeons at bay while I crack the NPPL, since one arm in plaster has never been a reassuring look for a pilot.

It can’t go on forever. Each time I’m filed down and bolted back together, a little less of me and a little more titanium is left at the end of it, and at this rate my family will be bringing grapes to a small ear, sitting atop a large pile of Meccano, tucked into the hospital sheets.

Until that happens, however, I’ll be bringing my further mishaps and misadventures to you. So until next week, “cheers ears!”