London ain’t about shiny showrooms. Sneak through Brixton Market and you’ll spot armchairs with cracks. The polish is long gone, but they carry weight.

In the seventies smoke-filled pubs, you didn’t buy stuff to bin it after a year. You’d hunt down a proper armchair, and it’d see you through kids and rows. That’s what vintage keeps alive in this city.

Round Dalston way, not looking for nothing. I saw a torn leather club chair. Most people would walk on, but I dropped in and realised straight — this seat had lived.

Backstreet dealers always know someone. Camden Market spit out vintage finds. You need the bottle to haggle. I’ve clambered over dusty frames, but the chair shows itself.

Design splits by borough. Belgravia drips money, with velvet sofas. Camden’s mad chairs and sofa messy, with odd retro sofas. Peckham’s daring, and you’ll see patched seats that clash yet sing.

It’s the characters that matter. Cockney dealers shouting prices. Everyone’s part of the scene. I’ve paid cash with a grin and dragged sofas down streets. That’s retro life in the capital.

Truth is, age is part of the charm. a chair’s part of your story. It holds arguments.

When you’re sniffing about, leave the plastic rubbish alone. Take a vintage sofa, and let it shout London every time you sit.

Edit

Pub: 23 Aug 2025 00:19 UTC

Views: 10