A certain friend and colleague of mine found herself in Broome a few weeks ago (along with half of the population of Perth, if my circle of friends is anything to go by). Gallivanting on the beach, clad in a bikini and accompanied by her boyfriend’s niece, said friend spied what everyone else in Broome would soon be busily spying too: Orlando Bloom.
What to do next, given that my friend had both eyes and class? (Well, sort of.) What I mean is that although she certainly had an eye for Orlando she also had some misgivings about draping herself across his chiselled torso (this isn’t my hyperbole: she told me, honest) for a photo.
The solution presented itself in the form of the 4-year-old boyfriend’s niece. Dragging the poor child across they gazed up into Orlando’s startlingly well structured, almost elf-like, face (now this definitely isn’t my hyperbole: he was in the movie and EVERYTHING). Would you, she asked the almost ethereal-in-his-good-looks-especially-with-those-cheekbones-and-the-eye-crinkles (ok, now I’ve just lost it) Orlando, very politely, mind having a photo with my, er, daughter?
Apparently the Fjf###@%fkjldfljdkffbhgm-ing Orlando was a peach and happily chatted to the lucky little toddler bitch while my friend snapped the photo.
A nice story. Which becomes even nicer if you open this week’s OK magazine and turn to page four or so, where a certain “fan" and her "baby” have been snapped posing with Mr B. Oh hilare, I believe my sides have split.
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