While I'm idling about, waiting for idiots who seemingly can't work an alarm clock, thoughts about The Andre.
So, donut duty calls and this week I'm in Tesco flitting though trashmags as usual. I open Now or Nice! or Woo! or whatever it's called (they all feature concerned-looking orange people on the front with headlines embellishing some minor misfortune, usually of their own making, or other). Anyway, a glance at Peter Andre's column and as usual, he retells carefully worded snippets of his week as if he was sending a postcard to a seven year old.
And I saw a picture of him heading to a West End do on his birthday with a microphone clipped to his jacket. Striding in front of him in a bemusingly cheap-looking dress is Dr Emily - the antithesis of Katie Price with whom he appears to have zero chemistry. So he enjoys a party in some venue or other with family, friends and film crew ("they're like family" said Pete once). And then he recalls that Dr Emily can't stay for champagne for some reason, and that like a child being forced to write a thank you letter to some aunt he's very thankful for a Claire for arranging his birthday party..and he plugs the exclusive cake company who enormous naff-looking ego-cake with pictures of him on it.
And them some thing happened that has never happened before - I felt a bit sorry for Peter Andre.
I've got to go now because of work...but I'll come back to this post tonight and explain why.