RUMOUR has it there’s quite a good opera house in Milan. Unfortunately I can’t vouch for this. I did visit the Duomo, Milan’s crazily Gothic cathedral, once, but it looked like something Roberto Cavalli might design should he ever take industrial quantities of LSD. Since I can see that kind of thing on the Milan catwalks any old time, I skipped the full tour and popped back to the minimalist interiors of Jil Sander instead to see if that navy cutaway dress had come in yet.

But please, don’t let me stop you drawing up a virtuous Milan itinerary that takes in a performance at La Scala, something naked by Michelangelo in one of the art galleries and rounds things off with an In the Footsteps of the Romantic Poets tour of gorgeous, nearby Lake Como. You can always tear it up.

Let’s be honest philistines here and admit that Milan is a place for shopping, eating and, if you can summon up the stamina, a bit more shopping.

Good job too. For a city that has appointed itself as heaven for everyone who has ever fantasised about squeezing into a pair of velvet Gucci hipsters, it’s awe-inspiringly ugly. Though comparisons with Wolverhampton seem a little harsh, it is fair to say that few of its monuments compare with the merchandise in Corso Como, the spine-tinglingly chic emporium owned by Carla Sozzani, sister of the Italian Vogue editor Franca, and therefore Milanese royalty.

The best Milan’s most ardent fans can say about it is that it’s really easy to get to the Alps/Lake Como/Sydney from. Architecturally, it’s like Birmingham without the canals. And if you haven’t contracted a sore throat from the pollution after two days, you didn’t get out enough.

The slightly drab environs explain the shopping obsession. Milan might be a northern city, very distinct in its work ethic and style from the flashier, more laid-back southern cities, notably Rome (which Milanese consider quaintly provincial), but la passaggiata is still an important part of life’s ritual. It’s just that in the absence of anything stupendously lovely to strut across, Marni’s and Valentino’s shop windows have to do.

Be warned, the Milanese do not simply shop to look good, they look good to shop: mink, Kelly bag and full drag queen slap are par for the course.

What used to make the entire retail experience in Milan a financial imperative were the prices. On average, labels tended to be about 30 per cent cheaper than in London. Thanks to the euro, savings are not quite so heart-stoppingly thrilling these days.

Also, without the lira there’s less leeway for telling your bank manager that you misjudged the number of noughts on your bill. But let’s be adult about this. There are still plenty of reasons to shop here, chief among them the fact that it seems never to have occurred to Italians to feel guilty about blowing a year’s mortgage on a pair of gold chain mail trousers. Don’t underestimate how infectious utter irresponsibility can be — or how liberating. Glamour and beauty are commodities here — which is either very shallow or extremely uplifting.

And oh! the specialist shops. Forget impersonal department stores (the main one, Rinascente, by the Duomo, is fine but not as good as Selfridges). Milan is the city of personal service; of bra shops (La Perla or Prada), glove shops, tights shops, marbled paper shops, extortionately priced truffle shops and perfume shops (a little visit to Acqua di Parma is a must). Even the simplest, most humble product — a bottle of aspirin — is wrapped in wax paper rather than shoved in a plastic bag. It’s an education in something. There’s also the layout of the centre, so conducive, with its narrow streets, to nipping from window to plate glass window — and much more compact than New York, London or Paris. The four main label-queen streets — Via Monte Napoleone, Via Sant’ Andrea, Corso Venezia and Via della Spiga — all intersect one another and are lined with glamorous destination shops and excellent restaurants. It’s as if Rodeo Drive, Bond Street and The River Café had been transplanted into one tiny, easy-on-the-stilettos luxury theme park.

Combining some of the world’s most delicious, least Atkins-friendly, food with some of its least forgiving frocks might seem unkind, and Milanese cooking is even richer than the rest of Italy’s.

Undeterred by this paradox, designers seem to have decided that being a restaurateur is the new rock ’n’ roll. Those who can’t bear to be out of sight of a clothes rail for too long can now sample the grazing facilities next to the ready to wear. Milan’s Nobu branch, which is co-owned by Giorgio Armani and every bit as tasty (and expensive) as its London and New York counterparts, is attached to the huge Armani store on Via Manzoni. While you’re mulling over the knitted sable singlets in the Dolce & Gabbana menswear store on Corso Venezia, you can have a drink in the in-store café. There’s also a barber’s shop for the man shamed into pristine smartness by the Italians elbowing their way into the changing rooms. Or for the hard-core Cavalli experience, you can eat at Just Cavalli.However, like Nota Bene, the subscription-only travel guides for designers and other hard-to-please folk, I find myself thinking that Milan is really about the classics. It’s not that nothing new ever opens here, but the oldies are such goldies, it’s hard to give them up, especially the restaurants.

Take Bice, where the Italian baronial interior (tartan carpets and lots of silicone body parts) and the quattro formaggio pasta are not to be missed. During fashion week this is the seat of power — see Italian Vogue cold shoulder American Bazaar and count yourself lucky you went into accountancy.

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