IT was just like you see it in the movies – the scrum of press photographers surging forward as the limousine pulls up and the celebrity steps out.

My wife and I were in London on a theatre break when we’d noticed the snappers gathering outside the cinema just off Leicester Square and had hung around, eager to see who they were waiting for.

It turned out to be Katie Price, attending the launch of a kiddies’ DVD with her children.

To Katie, of course, the attention was nothing special and she took it all in her stride, looking neither to left nor right as she headed purposefully to the entrance, a hefty minder to either side of her.

In a few seconds – just long enough to clock the fact that she was much more petite than we’d expected – Katie had passed out of our lives as briskly as she’d entered it, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of expensive perfume.

Fleeting as this point of contact had been, however, it was enough to crank up our interest in the pneumatic model when she returned to the jungle for a repeat appearance in I’m A Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here.

It’s been suggested that Katie made the decision to appear in the reality show to counteract some of the negative publicity she’s been attracting following the break-up with Peter Andre.

As I write this she’s already been clobbered with five trials and it’s highly likely that she’ll be hit with more.

So what does this indicate?

Are the public taking out their spite on somebody they believe should be taken down a peg or two? Or are they, in a perversely British sort of way, showing their affection for the girl by repeatedly thrusting her into the limelight?

Whatever the reason, it seems that Katie’s decision to return to the jungle was a canny one as she’s succeeeding in what she set out to do – slowly winning over not only her companions in the jungle but also the viewing public.

It seems to be the case that the more we throw at her, the higher she rises in our estimation.

Perhaps there’s a lesson for the politicians here.

Isn’t there an argument to fly the whole lot of them over to the jungle and thrash out their policies around the campfire rather than in the House of Commons?

Ant and Dec would shout “Order!” Then we could express our approval or otherwise by the way we vote.

I’m already fantasising about who I’d line up for the witchetty grubs, crocodile claws and sharks’ eyeballs.

There are at least half a dozen candidates for the gunge tank – and one in particular I’d single out for the parachute jump.

Without the parachute of course.