From Markets to Mansions: London’s Love for Vintage Sofas and Armchairs I’ve always had a soft spot for old furniture. The family armchair was covered in throws but still solid. It sagged in the middle and smelled faintly of tea, but it told a story. Back in the sixties, an armchair wasn’t just a seat. Families saved for months to buy one piece. It’s in the weight of simply click the next internet page wood. I bartered for a sofa on Brick Lane one rainy morning. The fabric was stained and faded, but you can’t fake that kind of comfort.
It’s carried me through late nights and lazy Sundays. London’s furniture scene splits by neighbourhood. Belgravia keeps it polished, with deep sofas. Shoreditch stays messy, with mismatched sofas. London wouldn’t be London without the variety. The catalogue stuff has no soul. Old-school sofas become part of your life. They’re not perfect, but neither are we. At the end of the day, retro wins because it’s real. An armchair should hug you back. Next time you’re thinking of flat-pack, wander a street full of second-hand shops.
Save a battered seat, and see how it shapes your nights.
It’s carried me through late nights and lazy Sundays. London’s furniture scene splits by neighbourhood. Belgravia keeps it polished, with deep sofas. Shoreditch stays messy, with mismatched sofas. London wouldn’t be London without the variety. The catalogue stuff has no soul. Old-school sofas become part of your life. They’re not perfect, but neither are we. At the end of the day, retro wins because it’s real. An armchair should hug you back. Next time you’re thinking of flat-pack, wander a street full of second-hand shops.
Save a battered seat, and see how it shapes your nights.
