Forget catalogue gloss – London’s got grit. Walk through Bethnal Green and you’ll spot armchairs with cracks. The springs groan, but they carry weight.
When Soho never slept, mid-century armchair you didn’t buy stuff to bin it after a year. You’d save for a accent chair that mattered, and it’d age alongside the family. That’s what retro sofa store means in London.
I’ll never forget, not looking for nothing. I clocked a 1960s teak-leg accent chair. Most people would walk on, but I sat in and realised straight — this seat had lived.
Markets still hold treasure. Portobello Road cough up sofas with weight. You need patience to wait it out. I’ve clambered over dusty frames, but the payoff comes.
Every corner’s got its stamp. Belgravia drips money, with velvet sofas. Shoreditch stays scrappy, with funky armchairs. Dalston’s cheeky, and you’ll see patched seats that feel like the city itself.
It’s the characters that matter. Cockney dealers shouting prices. The clash keeps it alive. I’ve argued for hours over a price and bundled armchairs into cabs. That’s London grit.
Truth is, a scratch ain’t a problem. A sofa’s more than fabric. It holds arguments.
So next time you’re out, skip the bland shops. Take a vintage sofa, and make it your anchor.