PICTURE the scene. You’re reclining on the sunkissed terrace of a beautiful Lake Como mansion, looking out to a spectacular view of shimmering turquoise water and dramatic wooded mountains. Clusters of pretty houses and ancient churches cling to the hills, and the occasional speedboat carrying a handful of beautiful people cuts through the lake.

You’re sipping fine wine, when suddenly Amal Clooney comes gliding across the terrace, wearing an outfit so fabulous it practically has its own choir of angels. How wonderful to meet you, she says, adding that George is fixing some lunch and will join us soon. A butler pours more wine as you and Amal become engrossed in conversation, discussing urgent global human rights issues - then George appears, cool as a cucumber, flashing his Hollywood smile, and lunch is served.

I don’t know about you, but it sounds excruciating to me. So I won’t be entering the much-hyped, rather bizarre prize draw in aid of the Clooney Foundation for Justice, offering a “dream double date” with the golden couple at their luxury villa in Lake Como. The prize is lunch with George and Amal, with flights and a hotel thrown in. You even have a photograph taken with them, so you know it really happened.

It is, of course, a fabulous gesture, for a good cause, but I can’t help thinking how awkward it would all be. This occurred to me last week when, on holiday in Italy, I went past the Clooneys’ villa on a coach. As our driver pointed out lakeside properties of various celebrities, there was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glimpse of George’s elegant house. It was just a few miles from where I was staying (not in a luxury villa, I hasten to add) but a whole world away. I started wondering about the Clooneys and their beautiful Italian home. Evening drinks by the pool; George holding court with A-list buddies while he fires up the barbecue; Amal wafting from room to room on a trail of rose petals.

They fascinate me but, while I’d love a nosey round their place, I can’t think of much worse than winning a competition to be the Clooneys’ lunch guest. What on earth would we talk about? As well as being ridiculously glamorous, they’re fearless, trail-blazing philanthropists. Amal Clooney is an international human rights lawyer and Foreign Office special envoy on media freedom. Even if I brushed up on marginalised communities and human rights violations, I wouldn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of keeping up with her in a conversation. I’d be more interested in her soft furnishings: “Ooh, I’ve got cushions like these. Mine are from Home Sense.”

Then there are all the awks moments. What do you wear to dine with the God and Goddess of Effortlessly Stylish? Do you take a bottle? They’re bound to have a wine cellar full of world-class vintages, but you can’t turn up empty-handed. Do you take your shoes off at the door? What if you need the loo? Do you tuck into shellfish even though it makes you queasy? Spit on your napkin to tackle the pasta sauce stain splashed down your front? What if you have too much wine and tell that joke about the nuns?

What happens when it’s time to leave? Do you go in for a hug? Invite them round for a curry one night?

Even thinking about the Clooney lunch gives me a stress rash. Apart from all the awkwardness, surely such a taste of their fabulous life would leave you feeling depressed about your own.

For me, life chez Clooney is just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it holiday memory - and thankfully that’s how it will remain.

* "THEY should do this for older people too," mused my sister, watching Love Island. She and her mum friends are hooked, and even have a WhatsApp group chat devoted to it.

Can you imagine middle-aged Love Island? Instead of lean-limbed 20-somethings strutting around the villa, coupling up, re-coupling and losing it in catty exchanges with love rivals, there'd be lots of reading by the pool (wrapped in a sarong), afternoon naps, pleasant walks and the occasional game of cards. Romance? In that heat, with a hot flush coming on? No thanks. Is there a nice market to visit instead?

* CATCHING up with Michael Apted’s ‘Up’ documentary series is like being reunited with old friends. We feel we know his subjects because we’ve grown to care about them.

The footage of them as children is familiar; Tony, the cheeky East End scamp who dreamed of being a jockey, Nick the farmer’s son skipping down a Dales lane in his gabardine coat, sunny schoolboy Neil riding his bike in a Liverpool suburb.

I first saw it as a teenager, when it was 28 Up. Watching them all age on screen since, up to the latest instalment, 63 Up, coping with love, loss and life’s other joys and trials, I’ve wondered how it must feel to have TV cameras turning up every seven years. The pressure! Yet opening up their lives in such a way offers us a prism through which we reflect on our own.