Retro Armchairs, Funky Chairs, and the London Life
Tont FrancisI came to London back in the late 1940s, a young Jamaican man with a suitcase, a sharp suit, and a head full of dreams. Shoreditch wasn’t the Shoreditch you know today. Forget the bars and neon lights—back then it was brick dust, factory smoke, and a patchwork of voices from every corner of the Commonwealth. We made our London homes 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 mattered, you see. A good vintage style sofa wasn’t just somewhere to sit. It was pride. It was roots in a new land.
I remember my first retro arm chair—though back then it wasn’t called retro, it was just second-hand. 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 from Kingston. 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 design studios, cafés selling flat whites, and boutiques selling what they call funky chairs—pieces with colour, curves, and confidence. Funny thing is, those young designers don’t even know how close they are to the old Caribbean way of living. We always liked our homes bold, vibrant, a mix of styles and stories.
People talk about minimalism, about keeping it all clean and simple. Not me. I say life is messy and rich, so your furniture should be too. A funky chair in the corner—something with a bright pattern or 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 rocking chairs rocking.
But let’s not forget the backbone of any home: the sofa and armchair. That’s where the family gathers, where you put your feet up after work, where you fall asleep watching the late-night shows. 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 and armchair were polished and presentable.
These days, when I see the new designs in London showrooms, I get a laugh. They call them unique sofas, one-of-a-kind creations 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.
What I love about today’s London is how it finally celebrates that uniqueness. A unique sofa is no longer something you’re ashamed of, like a hand-me-down patched together. It’s something you show off proudly, like a piece of art.
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 from the 1960s, picked up in a vintage shop down Hackney Road. Next to it, a velvet 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 deep buttons and 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 with sharp lines, maybe it’s a funky chair that makes you grin every time you see it, maybe it’s a unique sofa that becomes the centrepiece of your living room. 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 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.