An unlikely mob of tourists has crowded round the front of the new Apple store on London’s Regent Street. “Why aren’t you at the Tower of London?” I ask a stylish French girl who has seen a pink iPod mini through the window and is wailing with desire.

“I ’erd zat Apple had opened,” she says with a sniff. “But it seems I am too early.”

“Hey, buddy!” shouts the doorman, spotting an invitation to today’s special preview in my hand. He’s working the crowd like it’s Studio 54 rather than Dixons. “Come inside, man.” The heavy doors swing open and I’m beckoned into the holy shrine.

I have no time to dwell on his scarily cheerful voice and glazed eyes as the pit of my stomach has just hit the expensive, stone floor. “It’s all so . . . shiny!” Glass, steel and blond wood, its two open-plan floors are packed with white hardware that glimmers under scores of spotlights.

I want to sink to my knees and thank God for consumer durables.

Some shop boys exchange looks of delight at my response, but I’m already distracted by an iMac G5 computer — more sculpture than machine. I start stroking its curves, knowing they want me to think my life will never be complete without it.

All around me the worshippers at the Apple temple are quivering with desire. Opposite, a grown woman is getting inordinately frisky with an iPod while an older gentleman fondles a lovely pair of speakers. There seems something a little unhealthy about these people’s relationship with Apple.

The shop, which opened in earnest yesterday, is the company’s first in Europe. Apple has opened 96 of them in America since 2001. That, they say, is one every 13 days.

When Apple Tokyo was launched in a typhoon last year, the queue of geeks stretched a mile down the street. When the doors opened they sprinted in, high-fiving the staff, as jubilant as if they were escaping from North Korea.

“I really hope we get that kind of response,” says a wistful sales girl. In a world obsessed with fetish technology they probably will. Now that Vertu mobile phones can cost £18,000 and your choice of laptop tells people how hip you are, Apple has become a cult. Judging by the creepy shop assistants, “cult” can be taken literally.

“Hi,” calls out salesman Chris, rushing across to me with his hand outstretched. His palm is sweaty and his eyes are bugging. “What do you think of our shop?” he pants.

Objectively, I would say Chris has the rather unglamorous job of flogging computers. To hear him talk you’d think he was saving prostitutes.

“It’s about the people,” he says.