Ah, doorbell. My dear old friend, how I've missed you.

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I walked down the hallway. It was the logical thing to do, if I wanted to open my front door. And I did, because the doorbell had just wrung. Secretly, I hoped it was early Carol singers. Bad ones, whom I could mock.
 Outside, to my disappointment, were two men. They were smart and carrying fliers, and I began to reach for the emergency shotgun I keep in the umbrella stand. You know, in case of religious callers? But then they began to speak, and my hand stopped.
 "Hello Sir, we're here today representing the RSPCE. Did you know, sir, that there are over 3,000 Elves working in illegal sweatshops in this country?"
 I paused. I didn't know that, and I damn well told them so.
 "Well sir, how about this? Did you know that many of these Elves are paid only pennies a day? Or that these working conditions don't follow the guidelines for the health and safety of mythical creatures, leading to high rates of illness and permanent disability?"
No, I replied. I did not know such a thing. And again, I made sure they knew.
 "Well, thank you for your time Sir. Here" and they handed me some pamphlets, "Take a look at these. If you can donate just £4.7 million a month, we can ensure every Elf gets to spend this Christmas with his family, rather than making toys 24 hours a day."

 I took the pamphlets, and retreated in side. I read them, agreeing they made a lot of sense, and then set about freeing the Elves I kept in my basement. From now on, I'm only using child labour!