Shoreditch Retro Armchair Funky Chair Story

I landed in London around the late 1940s, a young Jamaican man with nothing but hope, a clean shirt, and ambition. Shoreditch was not the Shoreditch you know today. Forget the bars and neon lights—back then it was factory smoke, workshops, and a mix of accents from all parts of the Commonwealth. We settled down in the old terraces, sometimes too many of us to a room, with just the basics and a battered sofa to share.

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

I remember my first vintage armchair—though back then it wasn’t fancy, it was just furniture. A big, boxy thing with scuffed arms, found in a market off Brick Lane. I claimed it every evening after my shifts on the buses, lighting up, 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 bars, rooftop bars, and boutiques selling what they call funky chairs—pieces with colour, curves, and confidence.

People talk about keeping it plain, about keeping it clean. Not me. I say life is full and bold, so your furniture should be too. A funky 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 meets, where you rest, 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 chairs were polished and presentable.

These days, when I see the new designs in London showrooms, I get a laugh. They call them unique sofas, with bold fabrics, 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 mustard-yellow retro armchair, picked up in a vintage shop down Hackney Road. Next to it, occasional armchair a bright chair that looks like it fell out of a 1970s nightclub. And in the centre, a big Chesterfield-style armchair collection, with classic tufting 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 style sofa collection 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 galleries, 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.