Shoreditch Retro Armchair Funky Chair Story

I came in London back in the post-war 40s, a Jamaican lad with a small bag, a sharp suit, and a head full of dreams. Shoreditch wasn’t the Shoreditch you see now. Never mind the bars and neon lights—at that time it was factory smoke, old warehouses, and a mix of accents from every corner of the Commonwealth. We found space in the old terraces, sometimes six or seven of us to a room, with nothing but a kettle 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 vintage armchair—though at the time it wasn’t called retro, it was just a find. A big, 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, lighting up, listening to ska records I brought from Jamaica. 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 I once knew are filled with design studios, flat-white cafés, and boutiques selling what they call quirky chairs—pieces with colour, curves, and confidence.

People talk about simple design, about keeping it clean. Not me. I say life is full and bold, so your furniture should be too. A retro funky chair in the corner—something with a daring shape—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 meets, 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 were never 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 sofas, modern armchairs 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 60s-style armchair, picked up in a vintage shop down Hackney Road. Next to it, a bright chair that looks like it fell out of a 1970s nightclub. And in the centre, a big Chesterfield-style sofa and armchair set, 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 retro armchair, maybe it’s a quirky armchair, maybe it’s a unique 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.