Erotic Detective on her High Horse

You know you're getting old when you find yourself in a bookstore clutching the book you really want (The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl) and baulking at the £12.99 price tag. It's not that you resent paying that, but you do resent paying that for just one book. Why do the BOGOF offers never include what you actually want?

Still, whilst Rocker entertained himself in the Travel section, I sheepishly flicked through the Erotic Literature shelf. Anywhere but in a small town like this, this may not raise an eyebrow but we're talking about Hellhole here and so I felt a dozen eyes boaring into the back of my slutty head as I did so.

More so when I scoffed loudly to myself that you do not put Anais Nin (or indeed Pauline Reage) in the same genre as Abi Titmus (oh that's right, she's a writer now, too) - I know my erotic titles you see from my 'porn past' and I see no reason why the classics should fester on the smallest shelf in the building, tucked behind a pillar to gather dust.

I won't go off on one about the right to enjoy sex and sensuality, etc but it does make me laugh that some places still feel as though they are chained in the dark ages. For the record I found Belle De Jour's book hidden behind some frightful Mills & Boon style romp so I brushed it down and casually pulled it to the front.

Consider me the Erotic Detective. I will solve any crime that involves mis-filing in the Erotic Literature section of any bookstore. No job is too big.