Vaping in the toilet cubicle on a train is beneath me. This is a line I have drawn. First, it’s not allowed, but second – and much more importantly – the idea of savouring an intake of breath in a train toilet feels like a degradation too far. Worse still, I have always been plagued by images of a smoke detector going off and the arcane mechanism of the train toilet door somehow opening to reveal me there to my fellow passengers, wreathed in a cloud of my own shame.
I am pathetically addicted to my vape. I am not proud of this, but it is what it is. Or more accurately, it dawned on me as I walked into WH Smith at Euston station a few weeks ago, I am pathetically addicted to nicotine.
