When I couldn’t take any more misspellings of my name, I switched to the #RhiannonHandwriting hashtag. I couldn’t find the clip on YouTube but apparently some posh handwriting expert had scrutinised my scribbles one morning on Up at the Crack. My stans laughed him off the face of the Earth.

‘Oh yah, you can see by the way the “s” curls up that she’s a psychopath.’

‘Mmm yah, that curl in the tail of her “y” indicates she was into necrophilia.’

‘If you look at the large bubble above the lower case “i”, this is a person who likes to disembowel people for shits and gigs. It’s absolutely textbook.’

Aside from chit-chatter by Twitter-twatters, there was the odd reaction GIF, the odd do-gooder trying to raise money for my victims’ kids, a selection of deepfakes of me with Myra Hindley’s hair, talking about how much I liked to chop off penises and sling ’em in my NutriBullet. Some had me down as Jill the Ripper, complete with stovepipe hat; others talked about the mental health crisis and how we shouldn’t judge.

There were rumours of boiled heads in saucepans (never did that), human pubic wigs kept in a shoebox (it was actually my Sylvanian hedgehogs), several penises in abandoned kettles (nope), a chair upholstered in human skin (Jim and Elaine’s leather Parker Knoll – some photographer had seen it in a skip outside their house) and even that I had once eaten a human pancreas (can’t say I’ve ever felt the need).

And there were interviews with EVERYONE. Jim and Elaine with Tink in her arms, the PICSOs, the WOMBATs. The taxi driver’s widow, the taxi driver’s darts team. Everyone at the Gazette, even my replacement Katie Drucker who didn’t even KNOW me but had found the compass gouges in my desktop saying ‘Linus Sixgill’s a Cunt’. I could hear them all now:

‘…I always thought she was a bit funny.’

‘…I never liked her.’

‘…Priory Gardens. That’s where it started.’

‘…her dad’s to blame, taking her to his vigilante parties.’

‘…she’ll be after her sister next, mark my words.’

‘…that poor taxi driver’s kiddies.’

‘…she came to my hen weekend and killed a fortune teller.’

‘…she chopped him up!’

‘…did she cut off his todger as well?’

‘…she’s sick. It’s that baby I feel sorry for.’

‘…I always thought her coffee tasted weird.’

I’m amazed Tink didn’t pipe up with a well-timed bark of derision.

They interviewed Jayde and Ryan Prosser too, in a little taverna in Malta. They told the press about the woman in Florence, how I’d nearly killed her, how disgusted they were that I’d been around their kids. I spent the whole interview watching for signs of Ty and Sansa. Wanting to see any little faces. Ivy’s face. That’s whose face I wanted to see.

But she was nowhere.