A tiny mitten, cast in bronze and stuck on a railing, by Tracey Emin. It's so easy to miss as you walk up the steps into the Foundling Museum. If you come across it, as I did, on the way out it is an unbearably sad reminder of the tokens the mothers left with their babies as they delivered them to the Foundling Hospital. The museum is in a windswept corner of what's left of Brunswick Square, and it always lowers my spirits, even though it has the most beautiful rooms, thoughtful displays, and even a cheering cafe. I suppose it's because the story the museum seems to be telling is a history of foundlings and orphans, as if it were contained in a certain period in time, and yet outside there are still so many children who are being lost and not found, abandoned and not rescued. The mitten brings the story up to date and into the modern world and yet it, too, is outside the museum, although it is perhaps a reminder to not forget as we go on our way.