Vol. 121 - Five Stories of Hell

On spending Boxing Day in London's craziest toy store.

Emily and I took our kids to London for Christmas. It was an amazing two weeks filled with great museums, delicious food from around the world, tons of bus and subway travel, and what felt like every single playground in the city.

However, since we were traveling overseas, we had to sort out how to handle Christmas, as sticking presents into our already-packed suitcases was not on the menu for either Emily or me.

“Of course Santa will visit us in London,” we told our kids. “He’ll know exactly where to find us.”

On the 20th, a few mornings before we headed off, our kids woke up to an early Christmas morning, with their big presents beneath the tree. They also saw a hand-scribbled note from Santa, promising that he had our London address and would absolutely be visiting on Christmas morning.

Emily, ever the planner, had shipped a few small items from Amazon to the address we were staying at, so that, come Christmas day, our kids would have something to open up.

On Christmas morning, our kids woke and rushed down to the living room of the home we were staying in. Beside their few little presents was another hand-scribbled note from Santa, promising them each fifty pounds to spend at Hamley’s, a landmark toy store in London (if you’ve never been, imagine London’s version of FAO Schwarz).

As it was Christmas day, and everything was closed, we promised them we’d go the following afternoon, Boxing Day.

To the uninitiated, Boxing Day is a huge deal in the United Kingdom. What was once a day spent giving to those in need, Boxing Day has become something of a second Black Friday, when people rush to the stores in search of deals.

And just like on Christmas, most everything—outside of stores—is closed on Boxing Day. Heading into this vacation, we knew that we’d have three days (Christmas, Boxing Day, and New Year’s Day) with little to do but hit playgrounds and cook at home. However, unlike most of London on Boxing Day, Regent Street, one of the city’s commercial centers, is bustling. And where else could Hamleys be then smack in the middle of Regent Street?

Let me rewind for a bit: when traveling, tourist traps are not the things that interest Emily and me. We don’t care to see Piccadilly Circus or the Eiffel Tower, David or the Colosseum. We’re certainly not interested in whatever version of Fifth Avenue a city might boast. Rather, when we go places, we prefer to find the quieter, homier corners of towns and cities, where the locals live and hang.

In fact, the only reason we visited the touristy South Bank during our two weeks in London was because I wanted to go to the Tate Modern and we heard there was a rad playground in the shadow of the London Eye. (Can confirm. Jubliee Playground. Went twice. It was killer. Also had an amazing fish-and-chips truck nearby.)

Still, we made a promise to our kids and so it was off to London’s version of Times Square on one of the busiest days of the year.

We exited the subway near Trafalgar Square and began to fight our way through what felt like every single person in London.

By the time we made it to the door at Hamleys, Emily and I felt battered and bruised, having fought our way down a Regent Street which was completely overrun by holiday tourists. I’m sure it was even more crowded considering it was one of the few parts of London were anything was open, as Boxing Day is a huge deal in the United Kingdom.

Inside the store it was even worse. Chaos. Bodies everywhere. Exhausted parents, raucous kids, volume, brightness, madness.

We decided to split up. Emily would take our daughter, I, our son. We’d all head to the fifth floor and work out way down.

As our son dashed from display to display, asking how much this toy or that cost, I did my best to follow. Whereas he weaved between adults’ bodies, I had to shoulder my way past plenty of people who, like me, were just trying to make their kids happy. I was sweating, near a constant state of low-grade panic.

He and I made a small list in our minds, vowing to check every floor, to make absolutely sure he was getting the best possible toy for his money. For five floors, he shot from place to place, wide-eyed and thrilled to be in such a mecca. For five floors, I practiced deep breathing.

Finally, after looking at seemingly every toy in the store, he made his final decision: a small remote control robot and, as he loves to draw and color, a four-pack of really cool markers that can change color, disappear, reappear, and do all sorts of otherwise neat tricks. Total spend: £53.

Back on the first floor, we found Emily, who looked like she just came back from the Battle of the Somme, and our daughter, who was holding a pair of Moana dolls high above her head and screaming my name with glee.

As we left the store and forced our way back into the wall of people trudging down Regent Street, Emily and I argued whether to walk to the nearest subway stop or take a bus, which would soon arrive.

As traffic appeared to be ground to a halt, I yelled that we should walk. Emily, not wanting to fight through an immovable tsunami of tourists with our two kids, a stroller, and a bag full of toys, thought we could just hop on the bus, even if it was in standstill traffic.

For whatever reason, she won and we jumped on the next bus that came.

As they did every time we took any of London’s famed double-decker busses, our kids dashed up the stairs, hoping to get a front-row seat. Emily followed and I stayed on the lower level with our travel stroller, grabbing an open seat near the bottom of the bus’s stairwell.

As the traffic in front of us began to move, the bus lurched forward, sending Emily, who wasn’t quite all the way up the stairs, flying down. Her body hit the divider at the bottom of the stariwell with a thud and she looked at me with a shocked expression.

Exhausted and hungry, still glistening with a cold sweat and beaten down by a few hours spent in London’s most jam-packed corners, all in the name of giving our kids a great Christmas, I looked at Emily and said what might have been the meanest thing I’ve ever said to my wife:

“Still think we should take the bus?”