Forget catalogue gloss – London’s got grit. Sneak through Brixton Market and you’ll spot wingbacks with torn arms. The springs groan, but they’re real.
When Soho never slept, a sofa weren’t just a sofa. You’d save for a deep sofa, and it’d age alongside the family. That’s what vintage still counts for.
I remember, dodging the rain. I clocked a battered Chesterfield. Some would laugh it off, but I slid in and realised straight — this thing carried London in its bones.
Car boots keep secrets. Spitalfields throw up retro gems. You need to keep your eyes peeled. I’ve clambered over dusty frames, but the payoff comes.
Every corner’s got its stamp. Belgravia drips money, with wingback chairs. Brixton mixes it all, with odd retro sofas. Peckham’s daring, and you’ll see patched seats that don’t match but somehow fit.
The buyers and sellers carry the story. Old boys sipping tea on a accent chair and sofa they won’t sell. Everyone’s part of the scene. I’ve paid cash with a grin and bundled armchairs into cabs. That’s London grit.
Truth is, age is part of the charm. an armchair’s more than stuffing. it carries laughs.
When you’re sniffing about, leave the plastic rubbish alone. Grab a retro armchair, and let it talk back.