Forget catalogue gloss – London’s got grit. Stroll Camden Lock and you’ll clock wingbacks with torn arms. They’ve seen better days, but they’re real.
When Soho never slept, chairs weren’t background props. You’d work overtime for a deep sofa, and it’d see you through kids and rows. That’s what vintage keeps alive in this city.
Round Dalston way, killing time before a pint. I clocked a torn leather club chair. It weren’t showroom clean, but I slid in and knew straight — this thing carried London in its bones.
Markets still hold treasure. Deptford High Street spit out retro sitting room gems. You need the bottle to haggle. I’ve stood ankle-deep in junk, but the chair shows itself.
Each bit of London’s got its own flavour. Belgravia drips money, with wingback chairs. Camden’s mad and messy, with odd retro sofas. Hackney’s raw, and you’ll spot stripped leather that feel like the city itself.
It’s the characters that matter. Old boys sipping tea on a chair they won’t sell. The clash keeps it alive. I’ve paid cash with a grin and bundled armchairs into cabs. That’s retro life in the capital.
Truth is, scars make it real. an armchair’s more than stuffing. it carries laughs.
So next time you’re out, forget your catalogue orders. Take a vintage sofa, and watch it grow old with you.