Pamela Anderson stops by the Ecuadorean embassy to check in on her holed-up friend

By Pamela Anderson

LONDON—I sit in the tiny conference room adjoined to Julian Assange’s tiny living space in Ecuador embassy. I always feel a bit restless and nervous waiting for him. I worry how he’s coping. I realize how difficult it must be, to be here for years every day looking at these same walls, not feeling the sunshine.

Just then the cat pops in, making me feel more at ease. He has full reign. He is on the table sniffing the muffins and rubbing up against me purring and maybe a little disappointed that everything I’ve brought is vegan.

Next, the big man walks in, wearing a Sea Shepherd tshirt and jeans, a bit disheveled. It’s early but he manages a smile. He’s got a long day ahead.

Julian Assange checks the window first.

“Hello, my dear Pamela.”

He kisses me, thanks me for coming and digs in.

I usually visit for hours. But today is a day of preparation. The lawyers are on their way so we have a little less time.

It’s always a tremendous learning experience, and I take notes as usual.

Julian has been vilified by the Democrats. I have close friends who are devastated and want to know why Wikileaks leaked the emails and “took the Clintons down.” There were many factors, of course, but the truth is the truth. And Wikileaks is an agent of truth.

I met Julian through Vivienne Westwood, the British designer generally credited with dragging punk fashion into the mainstream (she used to make clothes for the Sex Pistols and stocked Malcolm McLaren’s King’s Road boutique, SEX).

Vivienne calls Assange “more punk than anyone” she has ever met. She essentially invented punk, so that’s a huge compliment.