LIZ JONES: Kate Middleton morphing into her mum? That may be a very good thing 

It was the floppy fringe, like a furry eye patch, that last week must have finally had Prince William reaching for his fleecy ‘by David Gandy’ pyjamas, his ardour as damp as Keswick. Because nothing is as terrifyingly prescient of what the future holds as the sight of your lovely wife segueing into her mother.

And not only is the physical likeness – pearly white teeth, conker hair, cute nose, prominent chin – staggering.

It has also been revealed that Kate and her 60-year-old mother not only share genes, they share jeans. And jewellery. And mannerisms: they both clench their fists and make their mouths into ‘O’s when excited.

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Doubled up: Carole and Kate have the same exuberant laugh when they enjoy a joke 

Pensive: On serious occasions, the women strike the same pose with their hands folded in front, left over right

The cheeky girls: That same wicked grin light up their faces when they are amused

They both laugh in the same way, mouth agape, eyes crinkled. They have similar posture, and clasp a clutch with hands neatly folded.

It is not only every man’s fear: that he will wake up, a couple of infants in, with his mother-in-law. It is every woman’s fear, too.

Not only is Kate getting a glimpse of how she will age (did anyone tell her she won’t be able to resort to Botox, filler or surgery? 

It’s as un-Royal as the Queen emerging at Sandringham on Christmas Day with an airbrush tan), she is also seeing how her life will play out: 40 or so more years of wearing LK Bennett courts. 

Of smiling inanely when you are so bored you would rather eat your own fascinator. Of a tsunami of selfies.

I can almost hear her now, waving the morning paper at William over her Special K: ‘Does my chin really look like my mum’s from the side? Is the wattle there yet?’

Scrum on England: Clenched fists as they cheer for the team at the Rugby World Cup

Letting their hair down: The flick style is worn straight and the luxuriant locks are onto the shoulders

Beyond the fringe: Mum Carole is 60 and daughter Kate is 33... but the same hairstyles suits them both

I grew up knowing with every fibre of my being that I did not want to turn into my mum. I considered her a doormat. She waited on her family hand and foot. Seven children! Are you insane? Not once did she ever drink bottled water, or coffee from a cardboard cup. If she ever wore lipstick and mascara – lippie from a fuzzy old tube in the bottom of her one handbag, mascara in an ancient block she had to spit on – she let it ‘wear off’: she never cleansed, toned and moisturised.

She never had a paid job. Or a bank account. She lived in fear of debt: she once owed the local grocer £60, a sum she hid from ‘Daddy’.

I think my fear of intimacy came from my mum: I didn’t want to hug her as her big bulk (she was disabled) repulsed me, as did her false teeth, and her whiskers. Even at my wedding, I didn’t put her at the top table, but hid her near the log fire, at the end of the room.

Skewed as I was by Vogue, cheap credit, the lure of a ‘career’, the siren call of ‘medi spas’, seduced by my right to feel stress, and to moan about my lot, I now find myself with my mum’s mannerisms and habits – I still use Persil because she did; I use clothes pegs to seal open packets; I sit up straight watching TV, my hands restless in my lap, as my mum always had knitting – but none of her qualities.

I’m of the first generation who rejected our mothers’ fate. Trouble was, we didn’t know how to cope with being so different.

All white: At Charlotte's christening - she will be set to inherit some enviable genes

A study in scarlet: With similar bags, the two women match the red dress with simple gold pendants and shoes

When you're smiling: Both mother and daughter display a fine set of pearly white teeth

I could have asked my mum’s advice on whether to take a new job, or where to stay in New York, and she would have looked at me with her small blue eyes and said: ‘I have no idea, darling. Why not ask Daddy?’

During her decade confined to a bed, I would be put off from visiting by the ghastly carpet in her rented semi, the hospital equipment that filled her room (‘Does it have to be salmon?’ I’d ask the carer), the candlewick bedspread.

If the family home had been more like something out of Elle Deco, I’m sure I’d have turned up more frequently. It was only at her wake, when my friend, seeing how apologetic I was about my suburban family home, reminded me that: ‘This would have been luxury for your parents: central heating! Easy to clean! Close to the shops!’

I wish I’d not been blinded by feminism and consumerism, the double-headed Hydra of my downfall, and been able to see how strong my mum really was.

So who knows – and who cares – if William is put off by Kate’s metamorphosis? Carole Middleton has raised a daughter who is doing a difficult job brilliantly. If Kate copies that, the Royal Family is in very safe hands.