Why Amal deserves a little sympathy

Here’s a phrase I thought I’d never write, but “poor Amal Clooney”.

I know she’s a leading human rights lawyer and a beauty with a cataract of thick, glossy hair to die for, who managed to bag the man I had earmarked as my future second husband.

But twins? Bless them, I hope they arrive safely and, yes, they’ll look great in photoshoots, but I do not envy her those. Oh no.

I remember just the one baby transforming me overnight from an urban fashionista into a curdy refluxencrusted bedlamite, cabbage leaves stuffed down my bra, my nightdress so stiff with caked milk it could have walked to the laundry basket, if I’d had the time or energy to change it.

Amal can afford all the help she needs. But I think the only thing she can’t do without is Beyoncé on speed dial.

The singer is also expecting twins any day and I think, come 3am, when they are pacing the floor with an armful of crybabies, they might appreciate a little weep and hormonal rant about human rights beginning at home.