Since New England was founded by Puritans, it's hardly surprising that the opening of our first (and, to date, only) local sex shop was greeted with outrage. Despite the fact that it's on a major highway with no foot traffic, the outcry about the decline of moral standards and youth corruption was deafening so, of course, I had to see it for myself. After all, I grew up in London and worked in Soho at the only business on Old Compton Street that was not a sex shop, so this little field trip should be no big deal.

My husband initially agreed to go with me, but chickened out when he saw I was actually going - he's a sweet West Texas boy who, despite having been married three times, is terrified at the thought of anything but sex in the missionary position; probably because his dad is a missionary.

First of all, the store is right next to a gun shop - no outcry there, naturally - and the window display is, shall we say, startling, even for a non-Puritan. I felt a little anxious as I furtively got out of the car and headed for the door, but then realized that if I met anyone I knew in there, they would probably be just as embarrassed.

My first impression was that the place is huge. And talk about brightly lit! I had imagined it was going to be dark and seedy, but no - it was just seedy. It was set up like a supermarket with aisles of different exotic goods, shopping baskets and slack-jawed, gum-chewing shelf-stockers.

I was doing my best to look insouciant and blasé, especially since I was the only woman in there. To my relief there were no dirty raincoats or even dirty old men. They were on the young and normal-looking side and were also seemingly unconcerned about being spotted. As I browsed the edible panties section, another woman arrived and asked loudly, ‘Where's the bondage aisle?' Suddenly I felt a whole lot more relaxed.

After admiring the truly gorgeous collection of blown-glass dildos (pun intended) and wondering where on earth one would display such a treasure, I moved on to the vibrator wall. I was fascinated by the variety of ‘personal massagers' on display. There were butterflies, bullets, rabbits, eggs, tongues and even turbo-tongues. Sizes ranged from dainty to Dirk Diggler. But they all had one thing in common: batteries not included.

Eventually I plucked up courage, picked out a his-and-hers ‘My First Vibe' (pink for me, purple for him), and headed for the cash register, where there was a sweet-faced young girl waiting with a big smile.

‘Oh, wow!  You, like, picked a wicked cute one!'

I thanked her and tried not to think about my own daughter who volunteers her time at the McGill University Shag Shop and was doubtless familiar with such toys.

‘So now we have to test them, OK?' she went on blithely as a line began to form behind me.

‘What do you mean, test them?' I asked nervously.

‘Well, we have to put batteries in to see if they work!' she continued, opening up the boxes and pulling out the battery cases. She deftly inserted two AA batteries into the first case and pressed the ‘on' button.

‘See how cute it is?' she squealed. ‘It even has a little light!' Now there were four people in line watching me squirm.

It turns out there were ten settings on the wretched thing, and she had to test all ten on both. By the time she was done, I was truly glad that hubby had stayed home.

On my next visit I'm thinking of buying one of those designer glass dildos for our entryway and putting it on a pedestal. Now that would create a real buzz.