I’d always hoped for a halo in the next life . . . Had someone told me I could have one now, but it would be made of graphite and screwed into my skull in four places, I definitely would have passed on the offer.

Halos are not all they’re cracked up to be, believe me.

I travelled up to Liverpool’s Walton Centre for Neurology last week, courage in my boots, and put myself in the hands of their spinal superheroes to have my poor old neck made safe with the application of a halo traction system – the neck being the latest casualty of my rheumatoid arthritis.

When the system was described to me, the emphasis was put on the ‘halo’ bit, but by far the most awkward piece of kit to live with is the rigid plastic jacket that the halo connects to. It’s a nightmare!

Like the halo, the jacket stays on for the whole three months. I can’t take it off to wash, dress or scratch my unmentionables and it’s lined in natural sheepskin . . . not exactly ideal for the current heatwave!

I’ve tried buying clothes four sizes bigger than usual and wearing them over the top, but the look was more Honey Monster than Honeypie so I’ve taken to wearing tops with very stretchy necks and studying Mr Bean DVDs to perfect the art of threading clothes through and around and up and under.

My wriggling skills are improving all the time.

The hairstyle has, as predicted, gone for a complete burton. It’s difficult to perfect a geometric bob without actually being able to reach one’s head, so I’ve had the lot cropped off and so far, folk have been so dazzled by the scaffolding all around it, nobody’s even noticed.

I’m used to passing children loudly asking their embarrassed mothers what my latest weird splint is while they’re shushed past me in the street – now those same kids fall silent and troop past in bug-eyed bogglement.

I’ve reached the realm of the truly scary.

But despite the obvious drawbacks, the halo has some saving graces. It may be cumbersome, hot and more than a little bit embarrassing, but it’s made my neck safe until surgeons can operate to solve the problem permanently, and it has allowed me to go through it all at home, rather than in hospital.

An ex-RAF Search & Rescue man told me about a young girl his crew picked up after a walking accident years ago.

She came back to visit them some months later, to say thank you for saving her life.

She was in a wheelchair, paralysed from the neck down and encased in a halo traction system for the rest of her life – and she was still grateful to be alive . . .

So what am I complaining about?