It won’t just be DS Percy wondering what kind of person you are. If you’re shouting loudly that these pictures that are oh-so obviously of you aren’t, your Facebook friends who, let’s face it, are more hangers-on who are interested in the dramas of our divorce which you were very public about on social media – poor misunderstood Jack, boo-hoo – will be wondering why there are so many pictures of Jack Atkinson having sex in circulation. After all, someone would have had to take them and you’re the common denominator in all of them.

I look at your profile now and all this has certainly boosted your number of friends: more than a hundred new friends since this morning. Naturally, you’ll think that they are all sympathisers, swelling behind the Caroline-hating ranks like before, all ready to defend you.

But I know that they’re ghoulish voyeurs, hooked on the drama already. They love it. Tonight they’ll be huddled around the laptop, watching you and Christine and Julie wriggle and squirm your way out of this. Or not. Fair-weather friends, waiting to pounce when you show a weakness.

The same people have sent me friend requests. It’s been hard for me, not least because these are some of our mutual friends who dropped me like a brick when it looked like I was crazy. There were a few who believed me, stood by me, but a year later and a houseful of crap means that they don’t call round too often. You can only tell your story of heartbreak so many times before their eyes glass over and they check their Facebook. Which is good for me now as they’ll all be watching this. I haven’t accepted a single friend request. It will just look like I’m not looking at Facebook and I’m not engaged with this at all.

I log on to Twitter and make a profile for made-up Monica and connect it to her Facebook account. Kill two birds with one stone. I post a series of tweets and pictures and within minutes someone has made a #teamCaro hashtag, which is slightly worrying as it connects me, but, on the other hand, it’s just support. I didn’t post it. Good. Someone comes back with a #teamJack, some guy defending you with a pointless argument about open marriages that only fuels the fire. Even better.

So, Jack, who has the edge now? I look at my watch. It’s miraculous. A personal breakthrough. I’ve managed to survive what started out as a desperate evening without sinking into the in-between. Admittedly, I bottomed a bottle of wine but I managed to pull myself out of the mire and I’ve done something productive. Unfortunately, my good feeling about tonight is spoiled when I pass a Premier Inn and remember that I’m a suspect in a robbery case and someone has pissed-up pictures of me.