IT is often observed that as a nation we are much more in touch with our own feelings, and those of our neighbours, than we ever used to be.

The death of Princess Diana was the event that marked the change in our national character, it is said.

The outpouring of grief that followed surprised us all, and although it also provoked some cynicism, it was generally accepted as a change for the good in the character of the traditionally buttoned-up Brit.

We had become a people who could try to understand and share the pain of tragedy experienced by others.

So why, when families have experienced the terrible grief of the death of a baby, can some people not take the time to imagine and sympathise with the pain they must have suffered?

And when those bereaved families have erected a memorial to their lost children, why must those same unsympathetic few go a step further and, presumably just for the heck of it, wilfully break and damage it?

What kind of thrill are those vandals seeking when they break off the hands shaped on a sculpture? Empty hands that symbolise the utter grief and unfulfilled love of a mother and father who have experienced the joy of pregnancy, only to face the desperate pain of losing a baby, endured the devastation of stillbirth, or the numbing shock of watching their child die. How can someone do such a thing?