The thing about Milan is that there is no such thing as over-dressed, too smart or too cutting-edge-off-the-rack-just-bought-it fashionable. So essentially I could lock myself in my hotel room for fear of running in to the Sartorialist photographer on the street. I mean…I might have lint, or runny eye liner or relaxed London scruff chic/meets Sydney couldn’t care less blonde girl style. That is pretty much FORGET IT in Milan. The city that has never seen ugg boots.

For a shoe designer it’s a good thing. Fashion fascism means you try a little bit harder. Think of wearing a heel with your nightgown to walk from bed to the window. And I sit on the plane wondering what it is…that hard granite, uber contrived, understated yet in-your-face brand of elegance that makes Milan so different from Paris. I guess part of it is business. Fashion is an industry so Milanistas take their styling to industrial levels. The subtlety of a trend is never literal here and it’s never lazy either. Forget neon. Don’t even think about a simple cashmere cardigan. So arbitrary. So forgetful and remiss of urbane sign language and inverted label snobby.

I am packing for Milan. I am getting a headache. I don’t have a serious fur or weirdly wide tweed trousers or a Great Gatsby fedora or a sequinned fingerless glove. OK I guess Anna Wintour better get ready for that Lulu Lemon tracksuit again. Hidden under my husband’s winter coat. When in doubt always steal a man’s coat and wear it with very, very high heels.