When I moved to Shoreditch I had nothing but a mattress. The windows rattled in the wind, but we dragged in whatever we could find. Forget glossy showrooms, so we begged, borrowed and carried. Another dragged a chair from Camden. It looked like chaos, cool armchairs but that’s what made it ours. Old accent chairs carry memory, and it doesn’t matter if it’s scratched. I’ve watched half my flat pass out across two chairs, and the sofa was another character in the story.

Markets spill chairs onto the streets, and shops in the area thrive on it. We wandered past Smithers one Saturday, go now and the place was full of funky retro chairs. we had to haggle, but that chair still sits in the flat. We’ve all shoved sofas through windows. it’s where life happens. Armchairs don’t mind if you fall asleep in them. Brand-new looks boring, but vintage carries weight. every wobble tells the truth. Once the parties are done, the broken toaster doesn’t matter, accent couch but the vintage pieces carry the whole story.

When you think furniture, ignore the fake polish. Make space for a classic seat, and let it shout Shoreditch every time you sit.

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