She dabs at her croissant flakes and orders a third cappuccino. “What about seeing someone on the train or catching someone’s eye across the room? “I have friends from that era who wish they hadn’t done all that, and ended up alone. So much sex with strangers is not good for you.” For her, sex is inextricably bound up with romance.
She begged Anderson to tell her if she could get him back or whether their marriage was over.
Her foundation supports a number of causes, and she is also a board member of the animal rights charity Peta.
Now, at 50, she’s back, causing the media to short-circuit by popping up in London as Julian Assange’s puzzling new friend. Anderson is the embodiment of voluptuous good health, while the Wiki Leaks founder and fugitive is bloating in the Ecuadorean embassy basement, deprived of sun, deprived of exercise and – if recent pictures of his deviant’s mullet are anything to go by – deprived of a mirror.
Well, I knew she’d be sexy, but my goodness, Pamela Anderson is a blazing firecracker in the flesh – torpedoes full thrust, pout full-blown, hair the full baby-blonde Marilyn.
A few minutes ago she was posing for photographs in Coco de Mer underwear and thigh-high boots.