Babies are all the rage at the minute.
First we had the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s bundle of joy and now, if rumours are to be believed, X Factor judge Simon Cowell is destined for fatherhood.
This newborn and unborn will both enjoy lives of vast wealth and privilege of the sort you or I could only begin to imagine.
Before the doctor could even slap his little bottom George was in line for titles, land and riches, and any lovechild of Cowell’s will enjoy all the trappings of his or her father’s lavish lifestyle.
I can just picture the Caligula-esque christening - a tot clad in a custom-designed Vera Wang baptism gown being fed grapes by a bevy of lithe-limbed beauties surrounding the altar.
Prince George and Cowell Jnr will probably want for nothing in their lives.
It would be easy to be envious of this, particularly for someone as materialistic as me, but I’d like to make a case for the non-privileged upbringing.
Growing up, my family didn’t have a lot (cue music from the Hovis advert).
Before readers start rolling out the ration book memories I’m well aware my brother and I probably had far more than the previous generation.
But from an early age I was well aware I was not the daughter of millionaires.
And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I’d much rather the thrill of circling all the things I wanted from the Argos catalogue over using it as a toy inventory.
Late-night trips to the supermarket with my mum to grab discounted food felt like a great adventure.
Some of the best memories of my life involve being dragged along the back street in a sledge made of discarded cardboard and string.
And one of the most character-building moments came with asking the grumpy old bloke at number 21 for my football back after kicking it over his wall.
Guffaw if you will Wills and Simon but, if you don’t want a little Lord Snooty, a humble two-up, two-down might not be a bad start.