You've Been Style Stalked

Is this you? Because I totes style stalked you last week. I stepped out behind you on High Holborn and couldn't resist snapping a photo of your very-well-put-together outfit.

It's not hard to experience outfit-envy in London - people tend to dress so much, dare I say, better and just, in general, smarter than where I'm from in the States. Case in point, the girl above. I'm not Yvan Rodic or Scott Schuman - I know she's wearing 50 shades of black, but, to me, they're all perfect shades of black: from her chic, patent loafers, to her ankle-skimming waxed skinnies (yes, I pay attention to that level of detail), to her salt-and-pepper tweed jacket and black leather handbag ... I was in love.

When I go back to Washington, my mom (I'm ashamed to admit) funds my massive shopping sprees, after which I spend about half an hour to forty-five minutes in my room, ripping out price tags and carefully storing each piece away in my suitcase for transportation back to London. She never gets to see me wear the clothes we so carefully pick out together, and that makes me sad (note: having an iPhone has changed this now, though - I try and take a picture of my work outfit, every day, so she can see the fruits of our collective labor).

So yeah. I style-stalk. No shame there.