This city don’t live off flat-pack. Cut across Shoreditch backstreets and you’ll spot accent chairs with bite. The polish is long gone, but they’ve got soul.

In the sixties when London swung, you didn’t buy stuff to bin it after a year. You’d save for a proper armchair, and it’d stay with you. That’s what vintage keeps alive in this city.

Round Dalston way, after a bit of mischief. I saw a torn leather club chair. Most people would walk on, but I dropped in and felt straight — this thing carried London in its bones.

Car boots keep secrets. Spitalfields cough up armchairs with edge. You need to keep your eyes peeled. I’ve clambered over dusty frames, but the payoff comes.

Design splits by borough. Kensington plays plush, with wingback chairs for living room leather. Brixton mixes it all, with odd retro sofas. Peckham’s daring, and you’ll see patched seats that feel like the city itself.

The buyers and sellers carry the story. Cockney dealers shouting prices. The mix makes the market. I’ve argued for hours over a price and bundled armchairs into cabs. That’s real furniture hunting.

Truth is, a scratch ain’t a problem. a chair’s part of your story. It holds arguments.

If you’re on the hunt, leave the plastic rubbish alone. Pull an accent chair with scars, and let it talk back.

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Pub: 22 Aug 2025 01:58 UTC

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