The thing about people in town is that they take you curious places, too. At Tym’s behest, we found ourselves, yesterday afternoon, in the sort of no man’s land that is St George’s Street in Southwark, heading up the garden to the two giant guns mounted at the entrance of the Imperial War Museum. War museums – who knew? This one is a beauty, with a welcome foyer of handsome planes suspended in a circle of natural light. The War Museum must be sitting on the finest and most dust-free of hermetically sealed war archives – and in my mind everything is labelled on a small square of stiff white card, in a curving fountain-pen script – for their exhibits are rich with, well, things, really, a fascinating array of things and videos and voices and stories. So many little one-eyed teddy bears and battered suitcases and picture books tearing at the spines were on display at the show on the war through the children’s eyes, such a selection of Make Do and Mend posters and ration books and yellow letters from the unforgiving front, and, in particular, one large, wall-hung embroidery sampler for wee Janet from her grandmother, with the chickens on the farm and Janet’s little house and the family ration book and Father fighting the good fight reproduced in a tight and colourful stitch. At the huge Holocaust exhibit, the dark and hollow eyes stared out from black and white photographs, and one room held an architect’s model of the Auschwitz camp: the tiny, white-plastic guard’s towers; the tiny, white-plastic hordes piling off the tiny, white-plastic cattle trains; the tiny guards brandishing tiny guns; the uneven ground kicked up by marching and shuffling and falling and being dragged; the piles, outside the tiny gas chambers, of what once belonged to the living.