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)