Funky Chairs And Retro Armchairs For London Living

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I came in London around the late 1940s, a Jamaican lad with a suitcase, a sharp suit, and big plans. Shoreditch was not the Shoreditch it is today. Never mind the bars and neon lights—in those days it was brick dust, workshops, and a crowd of people from all parts of the Commonwealth. We found space in the old terraces, sometimes too many of us to a room, with hardly anything and a battered sofa to share.

Furniture was important, you see. A good sofa and armchair wasn’t just a place to rest. It was pride. It was roots in a new land.

I remember my first retro armchair—though in those years it was just second-hand, it was just a find. A big, boxy thing with cracked leather, found in a market off Brick Lane. I sat in it every evening after my shifts on the buses, smoking a cigarette, 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 worked are filled with cafés, coffee shops, and occasional armchair uk boutiques selling what they call funky furniture—pieces with colour, curves, and confidence.

People talk about keeping it plain, about playing it safe. Not me. I say life is messy and rich, so your furniture should be too. A quirky chair in the corner—something with a wild colour—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 sofa and armchair. That’s where the family sits together, where you kick back, where you fall asleep watching the late-night shows. In the West Indian households of my time, the sofa was sacred. Kids couldn’t dare to jump on it. Aunties put lace doilies on the arms. And when guests came round, you made sure the best sofa and armchair were polished and presentable.

These days, when I see the new designs in London showrooms, I get a laugh. They call them one-of-a-kind 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 wingback armchair collection, with deep buttons 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 vintage armchair, maybe it’s a funky chair, 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 vintage 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.

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