So there we were, a couple of oldies on their holidays, going into a shop in Ulverston where they sell vapes and accessories. ‘You could get a tattoo while you’re about it,’ I told him. A moment later, I realised he could probably have his nose and nipples pierced, too. That kind of place. But it’s Cumbria and even the yoof in the North can’t help but be friendly, so the couple behind the counter did their best to initiate my old man into the rituals of vaping and the ceremonial accoutrements required.
He hasn’t smoked cigarettes since Good Friday and has done well, using e-cigarettes mostly bought at petrol stations and the like, but they are a fiddle and a faff, always running out of charge at an inconvenient time, and he wanted to get something more reliable. Behind glass cases there were dozens of styles and varieties of cartridge, on the counter, racks of ‘tanks’ (what an oboeist would call a mouthpiece) and behind the counter every imaginable widget for the serious vaper.
Out in the real world, e-cigarettes are deemed a Good Thing, an easy way off tobacco, but there, in this Cumbrian opium den, this is the dark side. Darth Vaper’s world.
The girl serving us, with ever-increasing impatience at our inability to understand, our need to sit down, or to change minds, was blond and pale in that way of those who only really come out at night. Her male half: baseball cap on backwards, huge hole in one ear where surely a stud if not a bone should be? – everything overshadowed by the silver ring through his nose, huge and so hard not to stare at. And boy, could these two vape. Every now and again, as we increased their exasperation, one or both would disappear in a great puff of smoke. I mean, puff – the size of a steamboat. Whoosh! Her puffs were particularly impressive because she could blow smoke like donuts, in ever-decreasing sizes.
By now, other customers were entering, and presumably finding the presence of Mr and Mrs Smith a little surprising. Wiry-armed old guys in combat vests, a biker in a leather jacket with death heads on the back, all with baseball caps, stubble, close-shaved heads. Could be anglers, more likely neo Nazis, and they vape for England. Remain or Leave? – don’t even ask.
I thought this stuff was supposed to be OK, harmless even. After half an hour in this growing fug I’m beginning to feel really ill and keep conscious by noting the names of ‘liquids’: Leprechaun, Monkey’s breath, Irish pipe, Welsh pipe, raspberry menthol.
‘No, you want something stronger,’ she’s telling my old man. ‘Was it giving you a kick? At the back of the throat? That’s what you’re looking for.’
It’s taken him half an hour to choose a cuboid over a tuboid and now he can’t decide on flavour. ‘Try Monkey’s breath,’ I say.
‘That’s just a fancy name for banana. Why not Benson and Hedges flavour? Golden Virginia?’
‘I don’t like them. Prefer Cutters’ Choice,’ he mumbles. She’s never heard of Cutters’ Choice. Now she’s having recourse to her cuboid donut-maker more and more often. Hfffff – she breathes in quickly. ‘Most people like you go for standard tobacco…’ Pfwhooo.
I press the credit card into his hand and escape. There’s a lovely handbag shop next door. By the time we reunite, he’s in such a good mood I can have whatever purse I want.
We walk among the crowds at the music festival. People stagger past covered in foam from a pie fight. Many are wearing bowler hats in honour of Laurel and Hardy, the local heroes. Here and there among the throng you see someone disappear in a cloud of smoke and then come back again with vapour in his eyes.
They say this stuff is harmless. Good. Don’t tell ’em anything different, because the relief of living in a smoke free house is worth the occasional white cloud enveloping the man beside me.