Don't forget who you are.

Ribbed polo neck and denim pinafore dress: c/o Fat Face. Hobbs monk shoes: £69 (similar). Marks and Spencer bag: £43. Tatty Devine bunting necklace: made by myself!

Scheduling is the poor man's time travel (bear with me, it kinda makes sense). I'm sitting with a fresh brew writing this on a Thursday lunchtime, knowing it'll be published on Sunday morning, and you'll be reading this maybe that day or in 2019 or whenever. In the interval of 72 hours, I'll have packed my bags, decamped Essex in favour of Manchester*, probably had a minor panic attack on the train as it leaves Euston and thought of pancake day approx 93 times. So, as you read this I'll be fuming at how bloody cold the North is, when in reality I'm chilling listening to a bit of Radio 1. In the past. See? Sort of like time travel.

East London, in a roundabout way, has a similar feel. I'm not an eastender by any stretch of the imagination, but I am firmly rooted there in quite a few ways. Last week I met up with Kristabel and we headed to Pitfield Street's eponymous café for a coffee. As we sat looking across the street I kept thinking of how lots of time paths crossed along this street - obviously not whilst we were talking, because that's weird and a little bit rude. If I were to turn right, I'd end up pacing the well-worn track back to my old place of work, via the local, home to plenty of breakdowns and a fair few hurrahs. Turn left, however, and you'll work your way up to the church my grandparents were married in, their first home and the bakery my cousin still works in to this day. Of course, you'll all have a vested interest in going straight ahead and ending up at the Breakfast Club because their huevos rancheros is amazing and 100% #instagrammable. And there I was sat, wearing some clothes from the brand where I had my first job. One part funny, one part kinda reading into this 100 times too much.

*With the slight upheaval, there might be a bit of change here. I've got a few posts scheduled, but can't guarantee things will be running like clockwork in the next few weeks+, so please bear with me while I sort my life stuff out. I'll inevitably be tweeting and gramming, so see you there in the meantime!

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Flat white.

Zara coat: £30 (similar). Oasis turtleneck top: £13.20. Marks & Spencer skirt: £17.50 (similar). Adidas Spezial: £27. Primark fedora: £7 (similar). Marks & Spencer bag: £43.

Flat White Soho, 17 Berwick Street, W1F 0PT

One a day. We all have our limits, and whether you apply it to apples or, as in my case, coffees, there's a reason you put these rules in place. I'll always be a tea girl at heart, but nothing starts the day wired right like a cup of the good stuff - just don't let me have any more than absolutely necessary else I'll be talking your head off all day. As I'm starting a new job soon (more on that later), I'll be missing out on my weekly free Starbucks, but it's giving me plenty of opportunities to find more independent, tax-paying establishments to get my caffeine from. When oop norf, it's super easy to find local cafés which are A+ at their specialities as they line every street outside of the main shopping concourse (check out Independent Liverpool, Birmingham and Sheffield for knowledgable insider tips from the people in the know), but when it comes to London every lunchtime starts with "shall we just go to Pret?". Thankfully, my pals at CitizenM got in touch and asked if I fancied trying out one of the coffee stops in their London city guide, and I was there quicker than you could say single shot latte.

I met up with photographer extraordinaire Amber (just look at her portfolio - the girl's got photography goals written all over her) for a catch up before I head off on my Northern adventures. On CitizenM's recommendation, we headed to Flat White on Berwick Street, just a little South of Oxford Street. While Amber opted for the place's eponymous drink, I went for a latte (yeah, yeah, leave it out) and we got some savoury treats to go with. I honestly couldn't fault the service, and the guys let us chat our hearts out for a good hour before we moved on (to Topshop, naturally). It's a nice little find, just far enough away from tacky souvenir shops to not be crowded, but close enough to the west end to make getting to your next meeting easy peasy.

Are you aware of any hidden gems I need to check out before I head off on my next adventure? I think I've got most of Shoreditch down, but would love to hear about any of your must-drinks!

CitizenM covered the costs of this lunch date, but all halloumi-decisions were my own.

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Ever since I can remember, I was a great devourer of books.

Barbour William Morris Ruskin Jacket. Next tie bow blouse. Oasis denim skirt: £5, sample sale. Hobbs monk shoes: £70 (similar). Marks and Spencer bag: £43. Charity shop belt: 10p.

Some things get better with age (one of those things is not hummus, trust me on that one, and *insert the sicky face emoji here*). I last visited the William Morris Gallery in Walthamstow on a school trip way back when, and it was a little crummy. However, we gave it over a decade and two house moves for it to mature, and it's a had one hell of a makeover. And it's amazing.

As Morris' teenage home, there's no better place to give homage to the development of his love for print and the arts. Obviously there's a little chunk about him growing up in Walthamstow/Woodford (with an interactive map, which prompts you to look for where you live, duh), but I really enjoyed the room which recreated his workshop, with rolls of wallpaper hung from the ceiling. Upstairs things are dedicated to his love affair with printing books and his socialist beliefs, along with a couple of temporary exhibitions. As we exited through the gift shop (and the café's fwis opportunity), I picked up Jazmine's Christmas present, and had a wander through the grounds, now Lloyd Park. I know it tends to be areas like Richmond and Hampstead to receive the good rep for pockets of green in London, but I will always be an advocate of areas a little further East.

Of course, I had to bring along my Barbour Morris print jacket, which felt just as at home here as it did back at Kelmscott Manor. Because a) theme, and b) I've been living in it since October, so was pretty difficult to remove from my back.

Hope you've all been having a good week so far - and, even if it's been crap, it's less than three weeks until the new year and a new start!

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The sweetest thing.

Asos french bulldog jumper (I KNOW): £22. Debenhams jeans. Cath Kidston ric rac mug. Look of pure sugar-enthused delight: c/o Bettys Tea Rooms.

Me and Bettys, we go waaay back. I have no photographic evidence - shock! horror! - but I visited back in 2011 when visiting my friend Sam in York for the first time. Having zero money as students with poor life choices (we went to Willow in York - need I say more?), we shared an afternoon tea for one downstairs in the St Helen's Square team room (on the map, above) and decided that was quite enough cute for the weekend. Fast forward four years and my days have been sorrowfully Bettys-free, until an email arrived in my inbox which I replied to quick enough to give me indigestion: Bettys was popping up in Islington for one day only.

As someone who actively avoids heading into town/into full-blown pollution clouds on the weekend, it was a welcome change to my usual trips on the train as I could amble along to meet Charlotte to take these photos before heading over to the venue. Popping to Bettys was like stepping into your best friend's; plenty of smiles and plenty of sweet treats. We started off the day by learning how to ice our own french fancies before prepping for the ultimate afternoon tea/flat lay situation. It was definitely more hands on than my previous Bettys experience, but who'd mind mucking in when there are mousse mice to be eaten? The sugar crush was warded off when I got home by getting changed into my new favourite jumper (two words: French. Bulldog.) and having a little read through the 'Who's Betty?' selection of short stories.

Because, if anything's my cup of tea, it's a good slice of cake (heh).

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