Reading about the angst of poor Demi Moore, apparently wasting away from despair at the end of her marriage; dancing on tables in bars, much to the horror of daughter Rumer, and rumoured to be on the sauce, I wish I could invite her over for a few weeks of respite.
I had the same thought when Britney Spears was combusting a couple of years ago.
Get them out of La La Land and catapult them into reality.
My prescription would be: bracing walks in Epping Forest, with nothing more than a couple of ibruprofen and some embrocation afterwards; a good feast in the local Indian restaurant E4 (when did Demi last have real carbs?) and a good girly gossip session over a glass of sherry or cup of tea, where we can laugh over Ashton Kutcher's acting and find her some new beaus who would be more suitable. We could see a few of the sights in London, allowing Demi to see what normal women look like so she might feel better about herself. And more importantly, we could refocus Demi on her career and finding her a good meaty role. How about it Demi?
