I was 19 when I became a Hamleys elf. The closest thing I can compare it to is military service. Every elf was given a uniform and it was our responsibility to make sure it looked presentable. It was green and red, with matching shoes and hat, and striped tights that didn’t keep out the cold while we stood outside to welcome people in. Our timetable was extremely regimented: 09.00 hours: unlock front door. 12.00 hours: fake snow falls on Regent Street; appear delighted. 18.00 hours: check grotto for vomit.
The only skills needed were punctuality, projection and the ability to seem happy even when freezing. There were long periods of intense boredom interspersed with bursts of immense stress. The repetitive festive soundtrack was tortuous. I still know all the lyrics to ‘Driving Home for Christmas’.
There were six elves in my unit. We all considered ourselves passionate creatives: in our ranks were an actress, a musician, an artist and a comedian. After work, we could be found at the Red Lion on Kingly Street, drinking late into the night. Most of us didn’t keep in touch. Carly, the actress, was in her early twenties. She’d been at the store for a while and showed me the ropes. I had a massive crush on her. She was very cool — or as cool as you can be dressed as an elf.
Our boss was the events manager Mark, one of the nicest people I’ve ever worked for. Imagine an old punk rocker who decided to settle down and play with toys. He still works in the Lego department and is friends with Oscar winners, multi-platinum artists, and royalty who’ve all turned up at Hamleyswith their kids. But he was lovely to everyone, including the elves.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in