Pollock’s Toy Museum

It might look pleasingly quaint from the outside, with windows stocked full of plush, wooden and clockwork toys, but step beyond the front desk and soon you will be utterly convinced that Pollock’s Toy Museum it is possibly the most hunted museum in London. Contained within two decidedly creaky, adjoined houses, this is not a place for those of a nervous disposition.

It all starts off charmingly enough: brightly painted walls bedecked with many glass cases of toys from around the world, with no linking theme other than that they were something that someone would have played with at some point in history. Ascend the rickety stairs though, and with each passing room the museum starts to take on a different quality.

It’s subtle at first. Maybe it was because I visited on a dull winter’s afternoon with a distinct lack of sunlight, but mix that with the absence of any overhead lighting in any of the rooms, and it lends the museum a slightly eerie ambience. It didn’t quite register initially, as I was engrossed in looking over the collection of robots, construction toys and miniature engines.

As I progressed past weakly illuminated cases of tin trains though, the dim atmosphere, the dust on the cabinets, and ageing labels became more noticeable. Had it not been for the presence of a few other visitors, I may have thought I had wandered into someone’s private collection.

After a few rooms, the route crossed into a room of the second house. For a moment I relaxed, as this room was better lit. It was also here I found one of the star exhibits of the museum: the little clay mouse from ancient Egypt. Then I looked behind me, and the terror began.

Two faces of wax, one cracked, the other registering as human to my camera stared unblinkingly at me from their cabinet, and I quickly left the room, seeking refuge amongst threadbare teddies and veteran toy soldiers. I checked the guide to the museum and saw there were only two rooms left to navigate.

I descended the stairs to the penultimate room, and tentatively stepped into its twilight. I now apologise for sharing the above photo, but I had to brave those hundreds of glassy eyes for real. Be thankful too that I have framed the picture to block out some of the less politically-correct playthings contained within. It was at this point that I was truly convinced that once the museum closed, its hallways would echo with tiny laughter.

Promising myself a stiff drink later on, I made it to the final room, filled with toy theatres, and the explanation as to how the museum got its name. Benjamin Pollock was a maker of paper and cardboard toy theatres in the 19th Century – though his shop was in Hoxton. The museum’s current location on Scala Street comes from the collection outgrowing its original location above a later iteration of Pollock’s Toy Shop.