On the day:
29/01/2013
On the way:
Garnets dangle at her earlobes in a delicately worked vintage setting and her hat boasts a brim of cosy (fake?) fur. Seated in understated elegance, and a seat by the exit, she could be a lost princess of the Russian Romanovs, an Anastasia escaped to England, raised in secret in the South East.
Wrapped in her long, woollen coat her stature is disguised but her ankles are delicate, her feet small in their black ballet pumps. Her green eyes are alert, her features fine, her nose proud and her parchment skin well cared for over the decades.
Small wonder that the handsome, broad-faced gent in the forest green weather coat and sturdy walking boots removes his wide-brimmed black hat with the little yellow feather when he sits down beside her. Small wonder that his smile is almost as wide as his face and his blue eyes sparkle as he runs his hand over his high forehead and all the way back to where his hair has receded.
He is, after all, in the presence of royalty.
On the pod:
Laura - Bat For Lashes
On the front page:
Red socks at night... care home delight (Metro)
Tuesday 29 January 2013
Monday 28 January 2013
Tall order
On the day:
28/01/2013
On the day:
Draped sideways over two seats, his blue-hooded head against the window, his weary lace-up moccasins with their Burberry trim reaching half way across the carriage. Now that's some tall.
It would be difficult to deny him those seats - his legs wouldn't fold into the space behind the seat in front of him, and his head would have to breach the ceiling for him to stand up straight.
The train stops, disgorges, engorges, and again. But he stays slumped, navigating his phone through the clear lenses of black-rimmed, national health-style spectacles. His destination is virtual, not physical.
At least until they take out a window to manoeuvre his mileage out where skies are clear and birds fly free.
On the pod:
Wish You Were Here - Fleetwood Mac
On the front page:
Tories push high-speed rebellion up the line. (The Times)
28/01/2013
On the day:
Draped sideways over two seats, his blue-hooded head against the window, his weary lace-up moccasins with their Burberry trim reaching half way across the carriage. Now that's some tall.
It would be difficult to deny him those seats - his legs wouldn't fold into the space behind the seat in front of him, and his head would have to breach the ceiling for him to stand up straight.
The train stops, disgorges, engorges, and again. But he stays slumped, navigating his phone through the clear lenses of black-rimmed, national health-style spectacles. His destination is virtual, not physical.
At least until they take out a window to manoeuvre his mileage out where skies are clear and birds fly free.
On the pod:
Wish You Were Here - Fleetwood Mac
On the front page:
Tories push high-speed rebellion up the line. (The Times)
Sunday 27 January 2013
Fine and dandy
On the day:
25/01/2013
On the way:
Brown brogues, red socks, grass green skinny jeans so tight you can see the shape of his empty right front pocket, burgundy Christmas jersey with a string of snowflakes in greens and yellows from shoulder to shoulder, a woollen sports jacket the blue-grey colour of a stormy sea, a silver watch peeking from the right sleeve, from the left, the hand with the heavy silver ring on his middle finger, two leather wristbands declaring allegiance: 'Jack Wills' and Back to 'Jack'.
He slouches with a studied casual grace, framed by the doorway at the front end of the carriage.
And to top it all, a lofty blond quiff. Who says the academic dandy is dead?
He continues to text message with his right hand, and clean his nose assiduously with the brutally bitten thumb of his left.
On the pod:
Maybe An Angel - Heather Nova
On the front page:
Women troops on March towards frontline combat (The Times)
25/01/2013
On the way:
Brown brogues, red socks, grass green skinny jeans so tight you can see the shape of his empty right front pocket, burgundy Christmas jersey with a string of snowflakes in greens and yellows from shoulder to shoulder, a woollen sports jacket the blue-grey colour of a stormy sea, a silver watch peeking from the right sleeve, from the left, the hand with the heavy silver ring on his middle finger, two leather wristbands declaring allegiance: 'Jack Wills' and Back to 'Jack'.
He slouches with a studied casual grace, framed by the doorway at the front end of the carriage.
And to top it all, a lofty blond quiff. Who says the academic dandy is dead?
He continues to text message with his right hand, and clean his nose assiduously with the brutally bitten thumb of his left.
On the pod:
Maybe An Angel - Heather Nova
On the front page:
Women troops on March towards frontline combat (The Times)
Smiles better
On the day:
25/01/2013
On the way:
Curled up in her seat, she'd be looking out the window if her head weren't bent forward, if her eyes were open. It gives a good view of the top of her black and blue striped beanie, which is teamed with a purple fleece, an olive green weather jacket obscuring the moonbag at her waist, khaki green bobbly trousers, tan socks with red polka dots and lace-up brown leather shoes.
Curled up like a drunk on the last train after a heavy session in the City, only it's the morning train and she's sober, just sleepy.
And when she raises her head its with a scowl, with concerns behind ochre eyes. And when she's not chewing on nothing, her mouth is set stern. Until she turns her head towards me and smiles, filling her face with with warmth and lighting up her ochre eyes.
Towards me, but not at me. No, her smile is for the foreigner on to my left, the lady who has not learned the London way - to drop your head, lower your gaze and keep your distance.
She's smiling back at my Mum.
On the pod:
Bring It On - Hard Fi
On the front page:
'20 yrs left' to halt the superbug apocalypse (Metro)
25/01/2013
On the way:
Curled up in her seat, she'd be looking out the window if her head weren't bent forward, if her eyes were open. It gives a good view of the top of her black and blue striped beanie, which is teamed with a purple fleece, an olive green weather jacket obscuring the moonbag at her waist, khaki green bobbly trousers, tan socks with red polka dots and lace-up brown leather shoes.
Curled up like a drunk on the last train after a heavy session in the City, only it's the morning train and she's sober, just sleepy.
And when she raises her head its with a scowl, with concerns behind ochre eyes. And when she's not chewing on nothing, her mouth is set stern. Until she turns her head towards me and smiles, filling her face with with warmth and lighting up her ochre eyes.
Towards me, but not at me. No, her smile is for the foreigner on to my left, the lady who has not learned the London way - to drop your head, lower your gaze and keep your distance.
She's smiling back at my Mum.
On the pod:
Bring It On - Hard Fi
On the front page:
'20 yrs left' to halt the superbug apocalypse (Metro)
Friday 25 January 2013
A bad turn
On the day:
24/01/2013
On the way:
He's not going to make it, the man with the light khaki rain jacket and the long skinny legs.
The station is just round the corner and he has a few minutes till the train arrives but his head is bowed and his paces are slow and short, tentative, more than a shuffle but less than a stride, aided by the cane in his right hand.
But there's no cause for concern, he knows where he's headed.
He passes the parked van outside red-brick residential block, then turns in through the open garden area in front, takes one last drag from his cigarette and flicks it, still smoking, with practised ease into a winter-ravaged flower bed.
On the pod:
No Brakes - Little Boots
On the front page:
'Light' cigs blamed for huge rise in cancer risk (Metro)
24/01/2013
On the way:
He's not going to make it, the man with the light khaki rain jacket and the long skinny legs.
The station is just round the corner and he has a few minutes till the train arrives but his head is bowed and his paces are slow and short, tentative, more than a shuffle but less than a stride, aided by the cane in his right hand.
But there's no cause for concern, he knows where he's headed.
He passes the parked van outside red-brick residential block, then turns in through the open garden area in front, takes one last drag from his cigarette and flicks it, still smoking, with practised ease into a winter-ravaged flower bed.
On the pod:
No Brakes - Little Boots
On the front page:
'Light' cigs blamed for huge rise in cancer risk (Metro)
The rest is silence
On the day:
23/01/2013
On the way:
The clouds hang low over the station, grey but almost white like silent steam, keeping in the cold.
And sucking up the sound. The birdsong has gone - just the occasional lonely note. The roads are quiet and cautious motors only murmur. Even the weeds on the once-green sward are silenced beneath a ruffled blanket of snow.
And the trains slide up and slip away by stealth. Perfect for a predatory 10.16.
On the pod:
Castle Of Glass - Linkin Park
On the front page:
Harry: My shame at naked pictures (Metro)
23/01/2013
On the way:
The clouds hang low over the station, grey but almost white like silent steam, keeping in the cold.
And sucking up the sound. The birdsong has gone - just the occasional lonely note. The roads are quiet and cautious motors only murmur. Even the weeds on the once-green sward are silenced beneath a ruffled blanket of snow.
And the trains slide up and slip away by stealth. Perfect for a predatory 10.16.
On the pod:
Castle Of Glass - Linkin Park
On the front page:
Harry: My shame at naked pictures (Metro)
Break the spell
On the day:
22/01/2013
On the way:
From the early morning magic of the winter garden, where bare branches bulge with snow, taller trees reach up through a white sky towards that one Smithian patch of blue and the patio table and bench are disfigured by a four-inch blanket; to the chilly close where wheels spin on a sheath of ice and humans hobble straight-legged, unable to entirely trust the crunch beneath their boots, unsure of what lies beneath; down to the road where traffic has turned smooth white snow to ridges and rolls of dark grey sludge but the icy pavements still crackle satisfyingly under the weight of each footfall; up to the high street, its swampy sidewalk awash with meltwater while buses bustle unflurried; onto a bus and along the familiar route surrounded by unfamiliar sights - cars transformed into huge white humps where parking bays usually lie empty, snowfields outside shopping centres, front yards filled with ice sculptures, scaly roofs now soft down, hedges topped like Christmas cakes; all the way, parting the waters in the muddy miles of puddle that were once hard tarmac, to the station; where the train expected at platform one has been cancelled, the southbound service is suffering severe delays, and I might as well catch the late train 'cos it will be coming in before the early one, which is now due in 27 minutes.
So just another day, then.
On the pod:
Chance (live) -Big Country
On the front page:
Woman, 25, 'freezes to death' yards from her home (London Evening Standard)
22/01/2013
On the way:
From the early morning magic of the winter garden, where bare branches bulge with snow, taller trees reach up through a white sky towards that one Smithian patch of blue and the patio table and bench are disfigured by a four-inch blanket; to the chilly close where wheels spin on a sheath of ice and humans hobble straight-legged, unable to entirely trust the crunch beneath their boots, unsure of what lies beneath; down to the road where traffic has turned smooth white snow to ridges and rolls of dark grey sludge but the icy pavements still crackle satisfyingly under the weight of each footfall; up to the high street, its swampy sidewalk awash with meltwater while buses bustle unflurried; onto a bus and along the familiar route surrounded by unfamiliar sights - cars transformed into huge white humps where parking bays usually lie empty, snowfields outside shopping centres, front yards filled with ice sculptures, scaly roofs now soft down, hedges topped like Christmas cakes; all the way, parting the waters in the muddy miles of puddle that were once hard tarmac, to the station; where the train expected at platform one has been cancelled, the southbound service is suffering severe delays, and I might as well catch the late train 'cos it will be coming in before the early one, which is now due in 27 minutes.
So just another day, then.
On the pod:
Chance (live) -Big Country
On the front page:
Woman, 25, 'freezes to death' yards from her home (London Evening Standard)
Thursday 17 January 2013
The big pitch
On the day:
16/01/2013
On the way:
First there's the off off-white knitted teacosy, and that's perched on top of a turquoise headscarf. Below them an unsmiling face like soft worn leather nests in the folds of a warm black coat. Without moving from her aisle seat near the front of the bus she raises her right arm to offer a leaflet to whoever may pass.
Praise Xtravaganza & Awards Nite!!! Enlarge - The place of your tent. And it features charismatic figures with polished faces, polished smiles and exotic names such as Prophet Gideon, Kingsley Boadi and Wale Babatunde.
"God bless you," she states phlegmatically. And lifts another leaflet for the next passenger.
On the pod:
In The Rain - Justin Currie
On the front page:
GPs warned to steer clear of the tranquilliser trap (The Times)
16/01/2013
On the way:
First there's the off off-white knitted teacosy, and that's perched on top of a turquoise headscarf. Below them an unsmiling face like soft worn leather nests in the folds of a warm black coat. Without moving from her aisle seat near the front of the bus she raises her right arm to offer a leaflet to whoever may pass.
Praise Xtravaganza & Awards Nite!!! Enlarge - The place of your tent. And it features charismatic figures with polished faces, polished smiles and exotic names such as Prophet Gideon, Kingsley Boadi and Wale Babatunde.
"God bless you," she states phlegmatically. And lifts another leaflet for the next passenger.
On the pod:
In The Rain - Justin Currie
On the front page:
GPs warned to steer clear of the tranquilliser trap (The Times)
Fonteyn of youth
On the day:
14/01/2013
On the way:
Act 1: It's something in the carriage (in the way she bears herself, not in the sixth section of the 10.17, which is where she settles like snow on her seat), her delicate yet upright poise from her black beret, through the short black bob framing fine features, down her deep red scarf and her simple calf-length black woollen coat, all the way to her black ballet pumps
Her skin may have crinkles but you'd never guess it by the way she glides.
Act 2: And later when she leans out of the ticket office queue, her left foot flat, her right pointed, the straight line from where the toe of her right shoe touches the cold concrete floor, all the way up her right leg and side, as she assesses her chances with the ticket machine.
The dancer may not be in a dance, but the dance is always in the dancer.
On the pod:
For A Friend - The Communards
On the front page:
No Minister: Whitehall I'm 'worst' crisis (The Times)
14/01/2013
On the way:
Act 1: It's something in the carriage (in the way she bears herself, not in the sixth section of the 10.17, which is where she settles like snow on her seat), her delicate yet upright poise from her black beret, through the short black bob framing fine features, down her deep red scarf and her simple calf-length black woollen coat, all the way to her black ballet pumps
Her skin may have crinkles but you'd never guess it by the way she glides.
Act 2: And later when she leans out of the ticket office queue, her left foot flat, her right pointed, the straight line from where the toe of her right shoe touches the cold concrete floor, all the way up her right leg and side, as she assesses her chances with the ticket machine.
The dancer may not be in a dance, but the dance is always in the dancer.
On the pod:
For A Friend - The Communards
On the front page:
No Minister: Whitehall I'm 'worst' crisis (The Times)
Wednesday 16 January 2013
Finding his fleet
On the day:
14/01/2013
On the way:
His dark blue eyes study the text in front of him from under the broad brim of a brown leather hat with a braided leather band.
A curved blade his nose, like a raven's beak, and unkempt his right eyebrow, but his beard is cropped short, if not sculpted, fading from mousey to silvery blond at the rounded point of his chin. His lips are pursed thin in his heart-shaped face, concentrating as he holds the tome on the adventurous grey trussed satchel in his lap.
Jack Campbell, Lost Fleet - by thunder he'll find it if it's the last thing he does.
On the pod:
Summertime - My Chemical Romance
On the front page:
We pay for wind farm 'blunders' (Metro)
14/01/2013
On the way:
His dark blue eyes study the text in front of him from under the broad brim of a brown leather hat with a braided leather band.
A curved blade his nose, like a raven's beak, and unkempt his right eyebrow, but his beard is cropped short, if not sculpted, fading from mousey to silvery blond at the rounded point of his chin. His lips are pursed thin in his heart-shaped face, concentrating as he holds the tome on the adventurous grey trussed satchel in his lap.
Jack Campbell, Lost Fleet - by thunder he'll find it if it's the last thing he does.
On the pod:
Summertime - My Chemical Romance
On the front page:
We pay for wind farm 'blunders' (Metro)
Hi-ho, hi-ho
On the day:
11/01/2013
On the way:
The little fella is in work clothes - dark grey (maybe faded black) jeans, a light grey beanie and a sturdy red jacket that have all done time at the rock face - so far, so blah.
Although compact, he carries his equipment with everyday ease - the big black tog bag and that, that implement. Everyday for him, it may be, but it's not every day you see someone step off the train carrying a stop-red pole the diameter of his fist and coming up for twice his height (not that his height is anything to write home about, no big deal, in fact quite the contrary). And then there's the contraption at the top that looks like a cup-holder cuff with a couple of semi-opaque plastic cups protruding above and below it.
Does he measure rainfall in heavy traffic, perhaps, or cull pigeons one egg at a time?
Is he a hedge-fund manager heading in to work in disguise? Or a giraffe gynaecologist at London Zoo?
Or is he in fact one of the eight dwarves who doesn't get much media 'cos after Happy, Doc, Grumpy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Bashful and Dopey, 'The Slightly Taller One Whose Job It Is To Catch Bats Down T'Mine' was just never snappy enough for Walt Disney.
Answers on a postcard...
On the pod: The Long Haul - No
11/01/2013
On the way:
The little fella is in work clothes - dark grey (maybe faded black) jeans, a light grey beanie and a sturdy red jacket that have all done time at the rock face - so far, so blah.
Although compact, he carries his equipment with everyday ease - the big black tog bag and that, that implement. Everyday for him, it may be, but it's not every day you see someone step off the train carrying a stop-red pole the diameter of his fist and coming up for twice his height (not that his height is anything to write home about, no big deal, in fact quite the contrary). And then there's the contraption at the top that looks like a cup-holder cuff with a couple of semi-opaque plastic cups protruding above and below it.
Does he measure rainfall in heavy traffic, perhaps, or cull pigeons one egg at a time?
Is he a hedge-fund manager heading in to work in disguise? Or a giraffe gynaecologist at London Zoo?
Or is he in fact one of the eight dwarves who doesn't get much media 'cos after Happy, Doc, Grumpy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Bashful and Dopey, 'The Slightly Taller One Whose Job It Is To Catch Bats Down T'Mine' was just never snappy enough for Walt Disney.
Answers on a postcard...
On the pod: The Long Haul - No
Friday 11 January 2013
Metal scream
On the day:
11/01/2013
On the way:
'MOVING METAL' yell the letters printed across the top of the windscreen of the massive, deep burgundy-coloured truck becalmed behind the bus as it takes on passengers.
It's not just the windscreen yelling - the driver's also at it, throwing up his hands in frustration. But you don't need to be a lip reader to work out that he's not alerting fellow road users to the nature of his cargo.
It's just as well there are a couple of panes of glass between us; there are ladies present, you know.
On the pod:
Lost In The Echo - Linkin Park
On the front page:
Rape: The figures that shame Britain (Metro)
11/01/2013
On the way:
'MOVING METAL' yell the letters printed across the top of the windscreen of the massive, deep burgundy-coloured truck becalmed behind the bus as it takes on passengers.
It's not just the windscreen yelling - the driver's also at it, throwing up his hands in frustration. But you don't need to be a lip reader to work out that he's not alerting fellow road users to the nature of his cargo.
It's just as well there are a couple of panes of glass between us; there are ladies present, you know.
On the pod:
Lost In The Echo - Linkin Park
On the front page:
Rape: The figures that shame Britain (Metro)
Thursday 10 January 2013
Weight responsibility
On the day:
10/01/2013
On the way:
The Yorkie trotting past the bus stop on its leash in front of her is a mere morsel. (To be clear, Yorkie the Yorkshire terrier, not Yorkie the chocolate bar.) By the looks of things she demolishes more in biscotti with her morning coffee.
She's tall, statuesque even, but her classical proportions are overwhemed by Henry Moore mass. The delicate features of her face are diminished by the folds of flesh that surround them.
Which is fine, if that's her choice. If it makes you happy, Sheryl contributes, it can't be that bad.
But what about the pink princess at her side, her thigh-high magenta mini-me. Whose decision is her sugar-plum shape? Whose indecision?
On the pod:
Deadlines and Commitments - The Killers
On the front page:
Half of all food goes to waste (Metro)
10/01/2013
On the way:
The Yorkie trotting past the bus stop on its leash in front of her is a mere morsel. (To be clear, Yorkie the Yorkshire terrier, not Yorkie the chocolate bar.) By the looks of things she demolishes more in biscotti with her morning coffee.
She's tall, statuesque even, but her classical proportions are overwhemed by Henry Moore mass. The delicate features of her face are diminished by the folds of flesh that surround them.
Which is fine, if that's her choice. If it makes you happy, Sheryl contributes, it can't be that bad.
But what about the pink princess at her side, her thigh-high magenta mini-me. Whose decision is her sugar-plum shape? Whose indecision?
On the pod:
Deadlines and Commitments - The Killers
On the front page:
Half of all food goes to waste (Metro)
Wednesday 9 January 2013
The morning Gwen Stacey died again
On the day:
08/01/2013
On the way:
The passengers in the front carriage of the 9.50 seem unconcerned as Iron Man battles the Sub-Mariner right next to the door.
Meanwhile, it looks like Spidey is back on top of the Brooklyn Bridge clinging to Gwen Stacey's broken and lifeless body while the Green Goblin taunts.
Marvel Girl and Cyclops fight for their lives against Shi'ar champions in the Blue Area of the Moon - and we know how that one ended up.
It's 'Doomsday' for somebody - probably the Silver Surfer. And the Hulk and the Fantastic Four are also in evidence.
With a collage of classic comic book covers like that splattered all over the satchel that lies at her feet, what could the blonde-ish girl in the black fleece and black slacks find to interest her in her newspaper. A true superpower and spandex saddo would just be rerunning those classic stories word for word through his mind.
"I am -- the Watcher. Since time immemorial, I and others of my race have beheld the myriad wonders..."
On the pod:
Oh Love - Green Day
On the front page:
Special double-size issue! X-Men - Phoenix must die (The Uncanny X-Men #137)
08/01/2013
On the way:
The passengers in the front carriage of the 9.50 seem unconcerned as Iron Man battles the Sub-Mariner right next to the door.
Meanwhile, it looks like Spidey is back on top of the Brooklyn Bridge clinging to Gwen Stacey's broken and lifeless body while the Green Goblin taunts.
Marvel Girl and Cyclops fight for their lives against Shi'ar champions in the Blue Area of the Moon - and we know how that one ended up.
It's 'Doomsday' for somebody - probably the Silver Surfer. And the Hulk and the Fantastic Four are also in evidence.
With a collage of classic comic book covers like that splattered all over the satchel that lies at her feet, what could the blonde-ish girl in the black fleece and black slacks find to interest her in her newspaper. A true superpower and spandex saddo would just be rerunning those classic stories word for word through his mind.
"I am -- the Watcher. Since time immemorial, I and others of my race have beheld the myriad wonders..."
On the pod:
Oh Love - Green Day
On the front page:
Special double-size issue! X-Men - Phoenix must die (The Uncanny X-Men #137)
Who's the daddy?
On the day:
08/06/2013
On the way:
Something's up.
The admiring glances in my direction. That's not happened before. And from ladies of a certain age, disconcertingly.
I'm wearing my brand new woolly hat from Jean, which pleases me immensely, but I shouldn't have thought that it would draw such a reaction. Unless hiding half my head makes me less resistible.
Then the dapper, white-haired gentleman at my shoulder, who makes even his big green and blue weatherproof jacket look natty, mentions that he might pick up some croissants on the way back home. It's not me gathering glances. It's him.
I have to smile - it's the story of my life. Dad.
On the pod:
Untutored Youth - The Hives
On the front page:
Facecrook - driver's website appeal for penalty points Patsy.
08/06/2013
On the way:
Something's up.
The admiring glances in my direction. That's not happened before. And from ladies of a certain age, disconcertingly.
I'm wearing my brand new woolly hat from Jean, which pleases me immensely, but I shouldn't have thought that it would draw such a reaction. Unless hiding half my head makes me less resistible.
Then the dapper, white-haired gentleman at my shoulder, who makes even his big green and blue weatherproof jacket look natty, mentions that he might pick up some croissants on the way back home. It's not me gathering glances. It's him.
I have to smile - it's the story of my life. Dad.
On the pod:
Untutored Youth - The Hives
On the front page:
Facecrook - driver's website appeal for penalty points Patsy.
Tuesday 8 January 2013
Sheathed sward
On the day:
04/01/2013
On the day:
The winter green sward is smothered in the detritus of autumn - sticks and leaves from the naked trees that shiver beyond the spikes of the fence, and an empty beer can.
Still, the green struggles through the mat of greys and browns, and around the shiny splash of blue and yellow. Grassy stalks are bent, prickly weeds bullish but they are united in their struggle.
It's no longer revolution, it's not even resistance. This time of year it's about survival and the snow has yet to come. But, come the spring, say the sward stewards, "Brothers and sisters we will rise again and the platform, the station and world will be ours."
On the pod:
Kiss You Off - Scissor Sisters
On the front page:
MPs damn rail 'commuter tax' (Metro)
04/01/2013
On the day:
The winter green sward is smothered in the detritus of autumn - sticks and leaves from the naked trees that shiver beyond the spikes of the fence, and an empty beer can.
Still, the green struggles through the mat of greys and browns, and around the shiny splash of blue and yellow. Grassy stalks are bent, prickly weeds bullish but they are united in their struggle.
It's no longer revolution, it's not even resistance. This time of year it's about survival and the snow has yet to come. But, come the spring, say the sward stewards, "Brothers and sisters we will rise again and the platform, the station and world will be ours."
On the pod:
Kiss You Off - Scissor Sisters
On the front page:
MPs damn rail 'commuter tax' (Metro)
Watchoo doink
On the day:
03/01/2013
On the way:
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
It sounds like bongo drums. Unimaginatively played.
But it's not the bloke opposite, the one who looks like he could be the less successful younger brother of Roberto Mancini. He's sleeping peacefully, black gloved hands folded on top of the supermarket bag tied up on his light-blue jeaned lap.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
And it's not the lady in with the frizzy bob that fades from dark reddish to reddish blonde at the end. Wrapped in in a fuzzy coat of chocolate brown with black spots, she peers through her spectacles to operate her phone, but her only other movement is in the ankle of her Uggs.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
It can't be the lanky dude in the skinny purple jeans that barely reach up to his hips, the chap with his hair cropped up to temple level then dragged up into a topknot like Woody Woodpecker's. Only he doesn't crackle with the energy required to peck a few holes in a tree to see if the redwood's really red. Or even to keep up a regular doink doink doink. And besides, he boarded the train only after it started.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
And its not the stern-looking silver-haired gentleman, nor the old fella on the phone while his wife holds her bag in her lap as she watches the world pass by through the window.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
So it's got to be from the pair sitting behind, by the sound of it an interested and involved mother and her lively and chatty young son.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
In which case, I reckon she's beating out a rhythm with an empty plastic 7Up bottle on her fibreglass prosthetic leg in a desperate effort to stun the senses of the 5-foot cobra coiled up on the morning newspaper discarded on the seat opposite.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
Stands to reason.
On the pod:
Winter Winds - Mumford & Sons
On the front page:
Army told to open up its system of justice (The Times)
03/01/2013
On the way:
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
It sounds like bongo drums. Unimaginatively played.
But it's not the bloke opposite, the one who looks like he could be the less successful younger brother of Roberto Mancini. He's sleeping peacefully, black gloved hands folded on top of the supermarket bag tied up on his light-blue jeaned lap.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
And it's not the lady in with the frizzy bob that fades from dark reddish to reddish blonde at the end. Wrapped in in a fuzzy coat of chocolate brown with black spots, she peers through her spectacles to operate her phone, but her only other movement is in the ankle of her Uggs.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
It can't be the lanky dude in the skinny purple jeans that barely reach up to his hips, the chap with his hair cropped up to temple level then dragged up into a topknot like Woody Woodpecker's. Only he doesn't crackle with the energy required to peck a few holes in a tree to see if the redwood's really red. Or even to keep up a regular doink doink doink. And besides, he boarded the train only after it started.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
And its not the stern-looking silver-haired gentleman, nor the old fella on the phone while his wife holds her bag in her lap as she watches the world pass by through the window.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
So it's got to be from the pair sitting behind, by the sound of it an interested and involved mother and her lively and chatty young son.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
In which case, I reckon she's beating out a rhythm with an empty plastic 7Up bottle on her fibreglass prosthetic leg in a desperate effort to stun the senses of the 5-foot cobra coiled up on the morning newspaper discarded on the seat opposite.
Doink doink doink. Doink doink doink.
Stands to reason.
On the pod:
Winter Winds - Mumford & Sons
On the front page:
Army told to open up its system of justice (The Times)
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