Thanks, Kate: now the delights of Bicester are out of the bag I visited with a friend who needed a proper frock and hooker-ish heels for an event at the Savoy. I arrived, slack-jawed with wonder at the pristine New England clapboard fixtures and fittings, agog at the olde-worlde street furniture, amazed by the ease and comfort (and speed) with which I parted with my money. Did I bag a bargain? No idea, as I have no concept of how much a designer beaded cardigan is supposed to cost, and I was too intoxicated by the experience to care. The shop assistants were beyond helpful, fetching unbidden accessories I didn't want but, you know, I really needed. The thoroughfares were free of cars, free of stress. The loos were high calibre. Because oddly, despite being all about the, as Kate would put it, "contained" shopping, Bicester is more - oh, so very much more. It's about the relaxing stroll, the egalitarian browsing, the unhurried cup of coffee on an ergonomically designed bench. And the female pair-bonding. Above all, the bonding. Only a fool would go to Bicester with her husband or boyfriend. It will not end well. How could it? If he gets grumpy and bored in Ikea, imagine how much worse will he behave in DKNY where there aren't even hinges to look at? The whole point of destination shopping is that those two words strike fear in men's hearts, conjuring up terrible (although possibly not inaccurate) Hieronymus Bosch visions of unfettered consumer frenzy. Mine was so panicked by the prospect that he offered (yes, offered) to look after the children, which was, as any mother knows, The Greatest Gift of All. Apart from a Bicester Village discount card. But before you may enter the Xanadu of 130 boutique-style shops tarted up to look like Cape Cod, offering up to 60 per cent discounts on high-street prices, you must be invited; only a saddo would pitch up alone. In fact, I'm not sure it's allowed. No, you must wait and watch and strain to hear the apparently casual remark: "I'm going to Bicester at the weekend, fancy coming?" This, ladies, is the equivalent of a homemade friendship bracelet lovingly woven from embroidered threads. It's an affirmation at cellular level that You Are the Chosen One, the one who is cool enough to be considered a fun companion, and discreet enough to be a fitting confidante for a voyage of retail discovery. Especially if the discovery is that you're both actually a size 16. Which is why designer outlets are no place for minors. There are things that impressionable young minds just shouldn't be exposed to: the wild cackling, the mild hysteria, the dread sight of mummy and her BFF trying on Vivienne Westwood puffball minidresses "for a laugh." No wonder Bicester features alongside Stratford-upon-Avon on tourist itineraries. Vegas may be yield its tawdry secrets at the touch of a smartphone, but the changing rooms in Missoni will always remain sacrosanct, ladies. What happens in Bicester, stays in Bicester.