It’s natural to be jealous of your daughter, Joanna Lumley says. But it’s deeper than that

It’s natural to be jealous of your daughter, Joanna Lumley says. But it’s deeper than that


My husband was almost teary watching our daughter thrashing the blokes in the speed skating race at a Saturday night roller disco, long hair flying above a 1980s silk jumpsuit and chandelier earrings: β€œShe’s magnificent.”

I thought the same. With interest. Was rapt that I’d put in half the genetic mix that created her strength and panache. But I was also feeling something that prodded me way past unlacing my skates. Christ, was that … envy of my own girl?

Amanda (Lucy Punch) and her toxic mother Felicity (Joanna Lumley) in Amandaland.

Amanda (Lucy Punch) and her toxic mother Felicity (Joanna Lumley) in Amandaland.Credit: Stan

Could there be anything more unnatural than a mum who’s jealous of her female offspring? Not according to Joanna Lumley, talking recently about why her character in new comedy Amandaland puts her daughter down.

β€œQuite a lot of women, who were once pretty, when they’ve got a very pretty daughter, are jealous.”

OK. I was never pretty, just had strongish features and a bust that pointed skywards, so that bit doesn’t apply. But Lumley’s point, I think, is that model material or not, there comes an age where you might look at your daughter with a complicated cocktail of pride and something that feels like β€œI wish I was you.”

The first time I caught myself doing it, Sades and I were on a girls’ getaway in 2020. There she was, gloriously unselfconscious doing handstands in the pool, her skin carrying that glow no damn amount of expensive serums can replicate. Meanwhile, I was sucking my stomach in and wondering if it was possible to overdose on HRT.

Kate Halfpenny and daughter Sadie. Is it jealousy that mothers have for their daughters, or something else?

Kate Halfpenny and daughter Sadie. Is it jealousy that mothers have for their daughters, or something else?

Now, it’s not just the physical stuff. My phone buzzes with Sades’ texts from festivals, clubs, parties. Mostly I’m home when they land, hunched over a tapestry, checking the air fryer timer, asking AI for recipes to use up the pantry’s 400 tins of chickpeas once and for all.

When I look at her beautiful face, I don’t see my younger self reflected back. I see her father at her age, with those same crinkly eyes and legs for days. Perhaps I’m not just missing my youth but that whole era of possibility when both of us were unafraid and untarnished.

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