Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Fellow Cubans of a certain age will probably remember a mid-eighties Havana-set comedy called Los Pájaros Tirándole a la Escopeta (translation not provided, sorry). The movie was about a young couple who find out that their parents (her dad and his mum) are dating each other. Problems arise when the youngsters refuse to acknowledge their elders’ relationship. Although a comedy, the film explores serious issues such as family dynamics, romance between middle-aged people – and how they are perceived by a youth-obsessed society like the Cuban one – and the ubiquitous macho culture.


"Are those my mum's shoes?"
"Are those my dad's trousers?"

I thought of this movie recently because I was reading a column by The Observer’s agony aunt Mariella Frostrup. I’m not a fan of agony aunts but for some reason, chiefly because of her writing style, I see Mariella more as a columnist in the same vein as a Barbara Ellen or Suzanne Moore than a mere dispenser of questionable advice – one of the reasons why agony aunts are not my cup of tea. On this occasion the dilemma facing Ms Frostrup’s correspondent concerned a mother who was dating her daughter’s fiancé’s father. To make matters more complicated both parents brought their relationship into the open in the same year their children were getting married.

Unlike the Cuban comedy this situation elicited no laughs at all, at least, I reckon, for those caught up in it. And Mariella was right when she brought up the fact that should one of the two relationships go belly-up (and who’s to say that couldn’t happen) there would be complications to contend with. You can bet your bottom dollar that the annual Christmas family gathering would become a rather awkward affair.

However that same point provoked in me a different reaction, of a more antipodean nature. What was at stake here in this mini-crisis, in my opinion, was not mum and dad’s relationship, dodgy as it might have been perceived by others, or daughter and fiancé’s fears and misgivings. What was at risk here was trust. Simple as that, trust in the person you are about to pledge your life to, “till death do us part”.

That “what if” scenario is the human in us. No matter how many romantic novels are written, how many tear-jerking films are made or how many plays are staged about star-crossed lovers, there usually is a little voice in our heads crying out: “Yes, but what if...?” Maybe this feeling doesn’t manifest itself in the same way as the case Mariella was dealing with (circumstances were different), but it does exist. Separate bank accounts for each spouse but one main joint account for house bills and the like, prenuptial agreements enforced by law and a circle of friends, mutual enough to invite to dinner parties, but still loyal to one of the two consorts. It is almost like designing an escape route before the wedding cake has been sliced. In fact, forget romance, this trust issue turns up uninvited when we think of going into a business venture with our best friend or if we give a good reference of a close mate for a job. Again, there's that annoying "what if..." they let us down?

You might be thinking that I am being cynical. I am. However, do not take my words as a rejection of the existence of romantic love; I am just merely trying to keep it more grounded in reality. The mother who wrote to Mariella about her predicament with her daughter’s fiancé’s father was probably thinking only about her future with le beau-père but her offspring was being far more practical. Mum, what if you and X split up? Who gets to keep the Michael Bublé CDs?

Joking aside, this is what life is really made of. Which is probably the reason why that woman wrote to Ms Frostrup in the first place. And we haven’t even considered what would happen if the mum and dad decided to have another child. That could happen. That would mean that daughter would have a brother who would double up as a step-brother. If the couple were to have a child before that, their little one would be the nephew of a much younger uncle. The possibilities are endless.

So, romance or practicality? A little bit of both, methinks. It’s all right to give flowers, serenade your paramour and walk along the Thames holding hands. That’s love, pure and simple. Meanwhile, keep a separate bank account. Just in case.

Oh, and before I forget. How does the title of that Cuban film translate into English, you might still be wondering? It is literally “The Birds Shooting the Gun”. Now, work that one out. Cheerio!



© 2014

Next Post: “Killer Opening Songs”, to be published on 9^th July at 11:59pm (GMT)

Urban Diary

Most of the flags have come down, a sea of paper on the ground. My neighbours no longer talk up Hodgson and his team; too far behind they are for the tag “cream of the cream”. There is a new fast food joint just up the road, a lonely St George’s cross on its front looks like an ode. To what? To whom? You might still wonder, forget it, mate, there is no answer.

And yet, three weeks ago, all those illusions! Yes, it’d be hard, but no confusion. The English team would plough ahead, using their feet, tactics and heads. Of course, there were the Italians, and Balotelli the main stallion. There was also the small matter of Luis Suárez, the skilful master. But against the odds the fans did bet, sadly an unlucky fate they met. The Gunners fans opposite mine, bright red cross on their car; it lost its shine. The window cleaner from five doors down: “2-1”, “To England?”, “You’re mad? Nah, to the toothy clown”.

Last week I walked from house to station, my barrio a mini United Nations. Flags of all colours festooning streets, faces beaming smiles so sweet, that even cynics would find hard, to give this World Cup the red card.

Still there lay, right on the ground, the paper flag that makes fans frown. It is a puzzle, a future tense, to be resolved four years hence.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 6^th July at 10am (GMT)