Last month I nominated Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, as a hate figure for the nation in 2019: the person we all need to get us through a difficult time, like your cousin’s girlfriend who waxes her eyebrows and yammers on about yoga at the start of a fraught Christmas. As I then explained about a million times on Twitter, I was joking: I do not hate Meghan, or even consider her vaguely hateful. I could no more despise the woman than I could flick through the pages of a magazine and take against a salt-and-pepper male model with a watch on. She wasn’t the point; the point was that society quests ceaselessly for an enemy, and if you’re going to have one, at least let it be one who probably won’t care.

This was right in an ambient, premonitory way, but I was wrong to think it was funny. The poor woman is being vilified round the clock – this week for having the audacity to have a baby shower with her friends in New York. It has gone beyond the point of mattering what her personality is like, were anyone in any position to know: she would have to be so thoroughly bad to warrant this level of scrutiny, so devoid of human feeling, so malicious in every intention, that the media’s daily censure wouldn’t be enough. We’d have to paint her yellow and black like a bee.

She can’t leave the house, pregnant, without being accused of “flaunting” her bump. She can’t walk into a room without wild speculation about whether or not she breached a protocol, by people who have no idea what royal protocols are. If a friend comes to her defence and asks people to stop hounding her, then who does she think she is, having a friend like that? OK, so maybe it is George Clooney. Someone’s got to be his friend. He might be perfectly nice.

If she smiles for the cameras, then she’s luxuriating in the attention. “She’s being victimised, you say, George; you with your fancy hair and your coffee habits … then why is she smiling? Riddle me that.”

If she goes to New York, she’s pointedly “without Prince Harry”. But if she had taken Prince Harry, then you can guarantee that she would have been dragging her husband away from his duties, to partake of her frivolity, and what kind of princelet might she raise with priorities like that? If she has a baby shower, some journalist, who was most likely trained to dig into the affairs of the mighty and powerful, sets those investigative skills to pricing her gifts then translating dollars into pounds. We’re asking the big questions, here: who spends $379 (£290) on a crib? For their friend’s baby? And besides: ew, baby shower, that’s so American. But isn’t she, though? No, she’s English now, until she gives any sign that she considers herself English, whereupon she will be American again. Randomised disapproval has rendered her stateless.

If she does anything remotely normal, she besmirches the majesty of her office; if she looks at all grand, she’s got ideas above her station. The norms of the lowest-grade analysis – know thy place, woman, keep your eyes down – have permeated the rubric. Respectable news outlets find themselves wondering what the devil she thinks she’s doing, meeting her friends in an upscale hotel. People who in normal life are intensely relaxed about wealth inequality are suddenly exercised about the fact that a celebrity married a prince and now – miracle – has an expensive handbag.

We did this before, remember? Lost all sense of proportion around princessly deficiencies, and ended up chasing one into a pillar. This is not a mistake any nation should make twice.