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Tate pulls her coat tighter around her torso as she steps off the double-decker at the stop for Aldgate East.
Her coat is oversized and lands a little past mid-thigh; it is cream-coloured, with a beige, tartan pattern covering it. She paired it with a pair of straight leg, faded blue jeans, a white blouse, and her beloved square-toed, burgundy boots with a relatively low heel since she will be spending the whole day walking around.
She wears her hair in a loose chignon, her tiny pearl earrings budding from her earlobes like drops of milk, simultaneously coquettish and innocent. Her heavy pearls interject some graceful feminine chic into her look.
Tate is interning at British Vogue and was assigned to write an article capturing Londoners' everyday style both on camera and on paper. For a day she's Vouge's trendspotter. With a specific set of plans in her mind, a notebook, pen and a small digital camera tucked into her tote bag, she makes do.
Dodging bodies left and right, she wobbles down Whitechapel Street. Most of the pavement has dried up after the light rain they had in the forenoon, only small puddles glisten on the concrete panels. She leaps over one and takes a sharp left onto Osborn Street.
Manoeuvring through the flow of people, the street fades into Brick Lane with its vintage retailers and edgy coffee houses. She slips past friends laughing, a businessman telling someone off on the phone with an undone tie around his neck as she rounds the corner. She submits herself to the flow of human traffic and lets herself get lost in the buzzing crowds.
People watching, Tate decides, is very much her area of expertise. She meanders around with her camera, a flaneur with keen eyes. London, to add, is also built for the melancholy urban observer.
She pops into a dozen of vintage shops, passing countless Indian places and cafés. Shoreditch is home to many advertising agencies, creators and artists, the general feeling of the neighbourhood is progressive and lively. With the street art and graffiti on the walls, there's an aura and grittiness about the place.
The hours slip away idyllically as Tate saunters, passing charming side streets and shops that stock independent brands. She sneakily takes candids of shoppers while jotting mental notes of looks that pique her interest. No detail falls through the cracks when one has imperturbable eyes. People watching, always a treat in fashion-forward London, has never been so fun.
For a late lunch, Tate decides to stop at a friendly backstreet café.
Harry lives the curious double time scheme life of a pop star—those crammed 18-hour days and then the sudden empty off-time when he might find himself walking miles across London to buy a book or an iced americano.
Half Million is one of Harry's favourite spots when he's got time on his hands, which he doesn't happen too often, unfortunately. It is small and rather hidden since it is halfway down one of the side streets tourists don't care to explore. Whenever he goes in, there is only ever a handful of people in there and he is never bothered. He figures it's a safe bet since it's the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday.
