As I walked over to the magazine rack, a front cover caught my eye.

I threw a few furtive glances over each shoulder then had a quick flick through to check the pictures inside met my expectations.

I surreptitiously slid the publication off the shelf, clutched it to my chest so no-one would know what it was, and ambled towards the till as if I had nothing to be ashamed of.

Then I placed it cover-down on the counter and pretended to be confused about which petrol pump I'd used, in the hope of distracting the sales assistant while he scanned it.

Once the transaction was complete, avoiding eye contact at all times, I walked out of the shop wondering what on earth had made me do it.

Before I tell you how I couldn't even wait to get home before turning to page 60 to see the photos in question I should probably make it clear that this magazine wasn't ACTUALLY pornographic.

What I meant was, this was the first time I had ever bought it and it was something I never dreamed I would do.

So the embarrassment was akin to how I imagined a novice porn-mag buyer might feel.

I'll leave it to you to judge which is worse.

The 138 pages, which I most certainly will not be reading cover to cover, belong to none other than…Hello!

Hello! – essential reading for WAGS, stuck-up pensioners and perma-tanned ladies who lunch, famed for the obscene prices it pays for ridiculous "at home with" pictures and posing questions about as taxing as "what did you have for breakfast?"

I'm not generally a celeb-obsessed rubber-necker who can't live without their regular fix of photos of society events and weddings featuring wrinkled old prunes and dolly birds.

But this was different.

Brangelina's fault

It was Brangelina's fault.