retiredmartin

April 2026. London.

I’d never been to the Museum of the Home at Hoxton Station (blue M at the red dot), not sure I’d ever heard of it.

Standing proud in old almshouses on the A10 next to the famous Vietmamese cafés, close to the cultural melting pot of Hoxton Street.

Worth coming just for the smell from the Carribean food van.

The Museum of the Home looks resplendent in the sun,

with its statue of Robert Geffrye in the centre of the fourteen almshouses now containing depictions of home life throught the ages,

focusing heavily on the changing roles of the Mum and Dad.

It’s a history of social change as much as of household items,

The sort of place where Brtits go “I remember having those“,

and Americans go “Sheeesh, what is THAT !“.

“Not much information about Sir Robert is there ?” says a bohemian looking young juy admiring the historical notes.

And at that point I realise that I have been here when it was called The Geffrye, before it became unfashionable to celebrate our slave traders. All I remember is that I saw Gilbert and George walking past. They were better dressed than I was.

I nipped out into the sun to admire the gardens,

assess the pub options; a cask-less Brewhouse & Kitchen where pints break the £7 mark, and a few dead classics.

Can anyone tell me more about Ye Olde Axe, “a strip bar that turns into a Rockabilly night on Saturday at midnight and goes on until 6 am“.

No ? Thought not.