It was a dangerous mission, but somebody had to do it. Donning tunic and pointed hat to brave hoards of present-hungry children, Essex Chronicle reporter Piers Meyler became an elf for the day in a bid to find out what really goes on in the Christmas grotto.

Elves have it hard.

Trust me, I know. I’ve been there.

Before I ended up as Santa’s little helper my deluded vision of elves was something akin to Orlando Bloom.

You know, the dashing hero from Lord of the Rings with a quiver full of arrows that were fired off like a Vickers heavy machine gun.

Little helper

It was not pint sized Dudley Moore in forest green felt and jingly bells.

The static from the polyester costume alone was enough to light up London. Great.

I blame my editor for this. That and the whole Christmas frenzy. But it’s work, I suppose. Just.

Fancy dress outfitters, Jems, in Moulsham Street, were very helpful. One woman at the counter cooed politely when she saw the sartorial confection of green and red.

I’m just not too sure what she thought of the two plastic ears that resolutely refused to stay on.

“I wore that one last year,” she said. “It looks great.” Mmm.

My ex-girlfriend was right. I should take myself much more seriously.

Being out on the streets was pretty terrifying. For reasons hard to fathom elves are invisible to adults but to kids on the cusp of adolescence we are free game.

One jaded 12-year-old shot this withering look over in the centre of Chelmsford and said my shoes were not things any self-respecting elf would be seen dead in.

His mother looked mortified and tried unconvincingly to disappear into the cracks in the pavement.

I was almost tempted to say: “This is important work.” But her child would have never understood.

But in the sanctity of the grotto elves are treated with much greater esteem. There the wide-eyed awe and magic remains steadfast and at Christmas we are almost God.

“This is my senior elf, Peter,” my boss said to each child. “Write to Peter and he’ll fill the sleigh up with want you want.”

This was more like it. A little respect where it is due. So for two or three hours last Friday afternoon I was working closely with Santa, or was it one of his stand-ins, in his sixth year at the Meadows Shopping Centre and as committed as ever to the Christmas cause.

Call me a soft touch but it wasn’t all bad. And Santa knew what each child wanted. Of course he did — he’s the main man.

So when a toddler asked for a racing car, just like a rabbit out of the hat, one appeared and his face was priceless. I would have paid good money to see that joy.

And a Pooh Bear colouring set was as near enough as you’re going to get to a Pooh Bear cuddly toy which was another six-old-year’s wish.

She was sold hook, line and sinker too. Then absolute horror. Away in the distance, past the tinsel door and somewhere between Smiths and Boots two 16-year-olds were plotting.

They wanted to come in to say hello and I could tell Santa wasn’t too happy with the prospect either.

“Hello Santa,” they said in unison. “We’ve come to feed Rudloph.”

“He’s on the roof,” Santa said. “Asleep.” True professional. Give him his due. Santa’s a pro to the end.

I should have said, “I’m out of here.”

But instead I stood there and thought seriously about ripping Santa’s beard off and hiding behind a mountain of cotton wool.

I felt much better when they left to be replaced by a three-year-old who jumped about five feet up every time he was asked his name and age.

He couldn’t believe his luck to meet a real elf. As for the real Santa, he is probably living it up in the Arctic Circle while root and branch members of Lapland Industries slave away across the world.

Competitiveness among Father Christmases is obviously rife at this time of year.

“Some of these other Santas don’t have a clue,” my boss said.

Elf service

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