The Little, Forgotten Things.

My wife's mother wasn't well. All turned out OK, but at the time a rapid heart rate and some chest pain were a source of alarm.

I dropped my wife off at the front entrance to the hospital and drove away to find parking. I had no intention of heading inside - a hospital isn't the best environment for a ten week old baby with a still-developing immune system, so I scouted a small patch of grass across the road. I parked the car, packed the baby (and accessories) into the pram) and headed for the grass.

On arriving I found a neatly manicure lawn spotted with topiared trees reminiscent of lollipops. A squat wall ran along one side of the lawn, so I trotted over, parked the pram, pulled out an irrelevant book, leaned up against the wall and started to read.

After a few minutes some of the sharper leaves growing out of the hedge on the far side of the wall had started to dig in, so I turned around to rearrange the furniture, as it were. A few broken leaves later and I was back to my book, mostly dismissing the line of small metal plates I had noticed on the wall.

Not completely, however.

I turned back to take a second look and saw "child, aged 3" neatly etched on the plate. The next one along said "child, aged 5", and the next, and the next, and so on. Dozens, all in a row. I looked across at the entrance to the lawn and saw the sign - "Destitute Children's Asylum Cemetery."

A neat patch of lawn, well kept, gravestones lined up like school desks, trees like lollipops near at hand.