Flat-hunting

"Move out of the way, tesoro!"

With a swift move, the uber-camp assistant designer hops over me with a handful of chiffon skirts wrapped around his arm like WWII bandages. All around me, swarms of anorexic models and bespectacled homosexuals shriek about some piece of clothing.

It's noon, in the centre of Milan. It's fashion week. I am in the epicentre of it all, a world-famous fashion atelier in Via Sant'Andrea. How on earth did I get there???

Turn the clocks back a few days.

I am speaking to my assistant F, and confess to her I am going to have to leave my flat in Sant'Ambrogio and I am toying with the idea of a little pied-a-terre in Brera, the artists' quarter of Milan. She claps her hands delighted: "I know exactly the place you need. A family friend has a lovely flat in Fiori Chiari, and I think the tenant is leaving soon!"

I can't believe my luck. I grab the number she gives me and call immediately. A replies with a soft but firm voice. I am not sure whether I can use the informal "tu" pronoun or should rest politely on the formal "lei". I opt for both, switching every 2-3 seconds. The whole conversation is very confusing.

"Yes, I do have a lovely little thing in Brera - she explains - but it won't be available before June. If you need to move in April, I have another little thing up for grabs in April. It's in Sant'Andrea".

"Well that sounds lovely! - I reply, without knowing where Sant'Andrea is - how about a visit next Thursday?"

And that's how I find myself running across town today with F. I soon realise the flat we are going to see is NOT in Brera. It's in fact a stone-throw from Via Montenapoleone, the fashion street of Milan, and for this week only the fashion epicentre of the world.

I know this because it's fashion week in Milan, and while the rest of the city is rather deserted (the crisis, apparently, has reached also the untouchables), Via Montenapoleone is literally awash with Japanese ladies carrying mountains of bags and Russian tycoons fighting over the latest Prada accessory for their babes back at home (they couldn't afford flying them over this time, what with the ruble being worth less than the Tanzanian shilling).

I meet A in the centre of her family palace. At the heart of it is the showroom and flagship store of a VERY renowned fashion label which will remain unnamed. As I attempt a half-hearted baciamano (is that really me!?!?! god oh god), I find myself surrounded by semi-naked models running wildly around the courtyard, herded by packs of barking stagiers.

We climb into the elevator. As she apologises profusely for the inadequate size of it all, we arrive at our destination. The massive door creaks open. Inside, a small corner of hell appears beneath my eyes. Trompe l'oeil covers every square inch of the flat, which includes a massive living room, a huge bedroom, a kitchenette, a bathroom and a long corridor. Painted drapes reveal sketched bucolic Baroque palaces and Italianate gardens in the background. The furniture decorating the flat ("all leaving", A reassures me) consists mainly of tiger-printed chez long (am not kidding!). The kitchen is covered in black marble. I almost faint.

We go back to her flat, which occupies the second floor of the palace. XVII century portraits cover the walls. A tiny, tiny dog yaps pitifully at my feet. Apparently, he's called Gimp.

"So, do you like the flat?"

"Well... I don't know what to say... er... of course... but... perhaps I should ask what the rent is...?"

"Why of course. Well, for such a tiny place I only ask for €3000 a month".

I almost fall off the chair on which I am uncomfortably perched.

"Of course, this is because you are practically part of the family. We wouldn't give it at such prices to a complete stranger. In fact, we simply wouldn't give it to a complete stranger...!"

I nod enfatically, while my eyes automatically look for an escape route and my brain seriously considers grabbing Gimp the dog and holding it hostage until I am free and into the open air.

Milan. Never a dull day...