London furniture ain’t polished brochures. Duck down Hackney Lane and you’ll spot sofas with scars. The leather’s cracked, but they talk back.
In the sixties when London swung, chairs weren’t background props. You’d save for a deep sofa, and it’d stay with you. That’s what retro means in London.
One afternoon I wandered, accent settee not looking for nothing. I spotted a battered Chesterfield. Some would laugh it off, but I dropped in and knew straight — this thing carried London in its bones.
Markets still hold treasure. Spitalfields throw up vintage finds. You need the bottle to haggle. I’ve dug through piles of rubbish, but the chair shows itself.
Design splits by borough. Kensington plays plush, with wingback chairs. Camden’s mad and messy, with funky armchairs. Hackney’s raw, and you’ll spot stripped leather that clash yet sing.
People make it what it is. Cockney dealers shouting prices. The mix makes the market. I’ve walked away then come back and bundled armchairs into cabs. That’s real furniture hunting.
Truth is, scars make it real. an unique armchair’s more than stuffing. It holds arguments.
If you’re on the hunt, skip the bland shops. Pull an accent chair with scars, and make it your anchor.