When I moved to Shoreditch I had nothing but a mattress. The carpet smelled like beer, but we dragged in whatever we could find. New furniture is soulless, so we grabbed second-hand. We carried a wingback through Dalston. It looked like chaos, but that’s what made it home. Chairs with scars feel stronger, and we don’t need polish, we need real. I’ve fallen asleep in a battered armchair with a book, and every time it felt right. Markets spill chairs onto the streets, and shops in the area thrive on it.

We found ourselves in Smithers showroom, and the accent chairs were bold and weird. we had to haggle, but it’s survived three house parties and a flood. Every student flat tells the same story. it’s half the fun. Armchairs don’t mind if you fall asleep in them. Flat-pack won’t last a term, but real pieces stay alive. every stain means another night. Looking back after twelve months, you don’t remember the kettle, but the vintage style leather armchair pieces carry the whole story.

If you find yourself in a Shoreditch flat, forget the catalogue shine. Grab a retro sofa, and see how it shapes your memories.