This city don’t live off flat-pack. Duck down Hackney Lane and you’ll stumble on armchairs with cracks. The springs groan, but they’ve got soul.

When my nan was about, a sofa weren’t just a sofa. You’d hunt down a accent chair that mattered, and it’d soak up smoke and beer. That’s what old-school still counts for.

I once ducked into a warehouse, funky arm chair just nosing about. I spotted a torn leather club chair. Some would laugh it off, but I sat in and felt straight — this chair had history.

Car boots keep secrets. Brick Lane throw up armchairs with edge. You need the bottle to haggle. I’ve dug through piles of rubbish, but the payoff comes.

Postcodes carry personality. Chelsea leans posh, with wingback chairs. Camden’s mad and messy, with odd retro sofas. Dalston’s cheeky, and you’ll spot stripped modern leather armchairs that don’t match but somehow fit.

The buyers and sellers carry the story. Design students scribbling sketches. The mix makes the market. I’ve walked away then come back and bundled armchairs into cabs. That’s retro life in the capital.

At the end of the day, a scratch ain’t a problem. an armchair’s more than stuffing. It holds arguments.

If you’re on the hunt, forget your catalogue orders. Take a vintage sofa, and let it talk back.

Edit

Pub: 24 Aug 2025 18:18 UTC

Views: 7