Me Talk Pretty One Day, Me Use Organization?

Well, Lianne La Havas has a show October 11th in London. Moral of the story: If we're not back from Amsterdam by then (as our program directors are mostly but not entirely clear on boring old things like dates...) ...I will cry big old "My love IS big enough, Lianne, but the Van Gogh Museum waits for no man!" tears.
HERE is the link, in case you read that and were like, screw it, I want in.
In an unrelated vein, we're going to have dinner at Dove Cottage in November. Dinner. At Dove Cottage. Also known as home of the mega-brilliant, mega-famous poet William Wordsworth. Ring any bells? It rings mine. So. bloody. excited.
This is the excited face. Are you ready?

 

That was exciting, eh?

(SPOILER: of a sort-ish: If you're not essentially ADD, this blog post (and any and all others) will be hard to follow.) (Which is probably completely unrelated to what my writing teacher described as a desperate "lack of organization". Completely unrelated.)
Check out this band that goes by Husky playing this song called History's Door. It's pretty rad. Pretty darn. Alas, I can't seem to make the embed code work for the life of me. Linksies!
So here's some inspiration pictures, as per usual, until I get sidetracked and write about something else. Moral of the story (yes, I know, I'm like whatsit, Aesop, going on about morals and thingummies all the time): Enjoy them while you can!
Sidetrack (already): David Sedaris. Me & Me Talk Pretty One Day had a real nice weekend together, although I think I like When You Are Engulfed in Flames just a smidge more. Oh, don't worry, I always say annoying phrases like "a smidge". Wonderful, ain't it? Possibly my favorite part of Me Talk Pretty One Day is this gem of a phrase from the mighty Sedaris. On "boys like me who kept movie star scrapbooks and made their own curtains":

When asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, we hid the truth and listed who we wanted to sleep with when we grew up. "A policeman or a fireman or one of those guys who works with high-tension wires."

I love the image of this kid being like, "Um..." while picturing a fireman with massive arms in those jumper things. Which for some reason reminds me of that FRIENDS episode where Phoebs is two-timing with that sexy, sexy, sexy firefighter. The end.

Pictures credit of Refinery29, Lianne La Havas, Stockholm Streetsyle, and the one, the only, Man Repeller.  Madonna...I don't know where she came from.

 How absurdly gorgeous is this?

And Refinery29 did a whole series on awesome suits. And now I want all of them, please and thank you. These are SO sick.

Acne rocks. Always.

 Mango.

I would boy this thing up.

Elizabeth and James. Clahssay. Like my spelling. Also the color.

Reed Krakoff. This...this, I love.

The ManRepeller, doing what she does best. Which is not, as you would guess, manrepelling. It's being a stylish, envy-inducing beast.

Iridescent Doc Martens, it's cool, nbd, whatevs.

Capes, you say? Mmm, okay.

London.

 Paris.

Lianne.

 Leandra Medine, being fantastic.

Awesome woman in Stockholm.

Awesome model in Stockholm.

"For the last time, Papa...don't preach. Fishnets are fashion."

Oooh. And this gem I just found on Stockholm Streetstyle:

Eat your heart out. This girl rocks.

xxx and all that jazz,

Tabby

London Calling

I know, I know, I've been away for like a month.  Whoever's reading this.  Anyways.
So I got accepted to the London Fall Study Abroad at my school, and it plays out like this:
Land in Paris, spend a deliriously delicious week and a half.  Take another week and travel through the Loire Valley, Normandy, etc., etc.  See Mt. St. Michel, which of course is fabulous. Spend a day hitting up Brussels, and then a weekend in Amsterdam.  Go back down to la cité la plus belle dans le monde, take the Chunnel across to London.  Live in flats by Hyde Park for two months, traverse around and fall in love with London, and visit amazing places like Ireland on the weekend, Bath, Dover, Stonehenge, The Lake District, etc., on day trips, Edinburgh one week. And then a weekish in London and Paris again with my best friend, who's flying over from Memphis to paaarty.
Oh, also classes, etc., but...they are heartily groovy.
When I found out, I stammered like a stuck record "Grammagrammagrammagrammagrammagrammagrreegrammagrammagrammagrammejeggrammagrammagramma"...and so forth, you get the idea I hope, my little chumettes.  And then bounced - fairly literally - around the house, looking for said gramma, and then finally found  her in the driveway, and invented, on the spot, a sort of shimmy dance that entailed shimmying, jumping, and a little dose of "HOOOOOORN!" a la Georgia Nicolson. (And this is reason #4734384 that I am glad we don't really have neighbors.)
After said fffffreak-out, my first thought was:
Now what in the name of God's green earth am I going to wear?
I am not, per say, a light packer.  At all.  And for this, I must absolutely be.  As our groovy Australian program director said, "Pack the absolute essentials. Leave half of those behind and bring twice as much money."
The money I can do...the packing bit?  Well, I'll try. 
The next six months will consist of me figuring out the ten most stylish pieces in my closet, looking up loads of stuff about where we're visiting (I know a lot, yet there's only a ton more to learn, it's cool, whatever), working to have lots of money to blow on macaroons, cool stationery, clothes, and Christmas pressies; and having nightmares about either a) missing my plane, etc. (Check!) or b) Looking like a fool in front of chic Parisians and Londoners and Scots and Amsterdam...ians, and Belgians, and...
And of course, mes amies, I will keep you updated on everything as best I can.  I will be too busy living la vie fantastique to write every day but weekly, I can handle. 
I think the hardest part for me will be to not constantly be behind my camera, because as my prof pointed out, "so many tourists experience things only through the lens of their camera."  Which is a shame.

But no worries.  I will immerse myself and hit the pubs like the best of them.
(And have ginger ale, mais oui.  This is BYU we're talking about!)
xxx and all that jazz,
Tabby

And in really random news, I didn't realize I'd never listened to all of 21 until yesterday, when I had to borrow my mum's car and I popped in her Adele CD. 
There is possibly nothing groovier than Adele covering The Cure.  (Lovesong, mes petits nincompoops.  But I love you.  Even if you'd heard that song but didn't know it was The Cure.)

100 Years of Fashion in East London

And this is why I'm doing next winter semester in London.