This city don’t live off flat-pack. Cut across Shoreditch backstreets and you’ll stumble on wingbacks with torn arms. They ain’t perfect, 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 accent chair that mattered, and it’d age alongside the family. That’s what old-school still counts for.
Round Dalston way, dodging the rain. I stumbled on a 1960s teak-leg accent chair. Some would laugh it off, but I sat in and felt straight — this chair had history.
Markets still hold treasure. Portobello Road spit out sofas with weight. You need to keep your eyes peeled. I’ve stood ankle-deep in junk, stylish armchairs but the chair shows itself.
Postcodes carry personality. Kensington plays plush, with wingback chairs. Shoreditch stays scrappy, with mismatched accent chairs. Peckham’s daring, and you’ll find wild fabrics that don’t match but somehow fit.
It’s the characters that matter. Cockney dealers shouting prices. The mix makes the market. 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. Grab a retro armchair, and make it your anchor.