Retro Armchairs And Funky Chairs
I came in London back in the late 1940s, a Caribbean boy with a suitcase, a clean shirt, and a head full of dreams. Shoreditch was never the Shoreditch you see now. Never mind the bars and neon lights—at that time it was soot and smog, old warehouses, and a patchwork of voices from all over of the Commonwealth. We settled down in the old terraces, sometimes too many of us to a room, with nothing but a kettle and a battered sofa to share.
Furniture meant something, you see. A good sofa and armchair wasn’t just a seat. It was pride. It was roots in a new land.
I remember my first retro armchair—though back then it was just second-hand, it was a market piece. A big, quirky armchair boxy thing with worn-out fabric, found in a market off Brick Lane. I sat in it every evening after my shifts on the buses, rolling a smoke, listening to ska records I’d smuggled over. That chair wasn’t perfect, but it was mine, and it made Shoreditch feel a little more like home.
Now look at Shoreditch today. The same streets where I carried coal are filled with cafés, rooftop bars, and boutiques selling what they call funky furniture—pieces with colour, curves, and confidence.
People talk about simple design, about keeping it clean. Not me. I say life is messy and rich, so your furniture should be too. A quirky chair in the corner—something with a bright pattern—can change a whole room. It’s like music: you don’t need a full orchestra to set the mood. Sometimes one instrument, played right, does the job. Same with chairs.
But let’s not forget the backbone of any home: the armchair and sofa. That’s where the family gathers, where you put your feet up, where you fall asleep watching the old TV. In the West Indian households of my time, the sofa was sacred. Kids weren’t allowed to jump on it. Aunties put lace doilies on the arms. And when guests came round, you made sure the best sofa set were polished and presentable.
These days, when I see the new designs in London showrooms, I get a laugh. They call them unique luxury sofas, with crazy patterns, reclaimed wood, and designs that turn heads. But that spirit isn’t new—it’s the same spirit we had when we patched up our old furniture with whatever we could find. It’s the art of making something your own. A sofa that nobody else has. A story you can sit on.
When friends come round my Shoreditch flat today, they see my living room as a time capsule. I’ve got a bright retro armchair, picked up in a vintage shop down Hackney Road. Next to it, a bold funky chair that looks like it fell out of a 1970s nightclub. And in the centre, a big Chesterfield-style sofa and armchair set, with aged leather that smells of history.
Do they all match? Not in the slightest. But that’s the point. London isn’t about matching. It’s about mixing. You walk down Brick Lane on a Sunday market and you’ll see it: cultures, colours, cuisines, all thrown together in a way that shouldn’t work but does. Furniture should feel the same.
My advice to anyone building a home in this city: don’t be afraid to choose pieces that speak to you. Maybe it’s a retro armchair, maybe it’s a quirky armchair, maybe it’s a bespoke sofa. Forget what the magazines tell you about trends. Buy what feels like you.
Because furniture is more than wood and fabric. It’s memory. It’s belonging. It’s a little bit of home—even when you’re thousands of miles from where you started.
When I sit back in my chair today, the city outside has changed beyond recognition. Shoreditch is expensive flats, tech offices, rooftop bars. But me? I’m still here, still in the same streets, still listening to ska records. And when I sink into that old retro armchair, I remember the boy who stepped off the boat in 1948, carrying a suitcase and a dream.
And I smile, because in a world that keeps moving, a good chair will always keep you grounded.