We have arrived at the State of Irrelevance. Unpack. Defecate on
the front porch, if you wish. In fact, do anything you wish, with
anybody you wish, for as long as you wish. No one will say a
thing.
Apart from a few brief moments to mourn in private once her
daughter Jessie’s pregnant body was discovered, Patricia Porter was
readily available to the media, which carefully avoided any
trenchant inquiry. Had she ever had a mother-daughter talk about
sexual relations with a married man? Even after such had produced a
child two years ago? Had she any misgivings about yet another
illegitimate child entering the family circle, courtesy the same
man whose relationship with her daughter seemed casual to say the
least?
Such questions must have occurred dozens of times to TV viewers,
but not to the interviewing anchors who bowed and scraped and
exuded unbound sympathy throughout, from their towers of
irrelevance.
