The trouble was, new children turned up nearly every day, some of them from distant parts of the city,
and one spoilsport was enough to ruin a game for everyone else.
But there was another thing Momo couldn't quite understand - a thing that hadn't happened until very recently.
More and more often these days, children turned up with all kinds of toys you couldn't really play with:
remote-controlled tanks that trundled to and fro but did little else,
or space rockets that whizzed around on strings but got nowhere,
or model robots that waddled along with eyes flashing and heads swivelling but that was all.
They were highly expensive toys such as Momo's friends had never owned, still less Momo herself.
Most noticeable of all, they were so complete, down to the tiniest detail, that they left nothing at all to the imagination.
Their owners would spend hours watching them, mesmerized but bored, as they trundled, whizzed or waddled along.
Finally, when that palled, they would go back to the familiar old games in which a couple of cardboard boxes,
a torn tablecloth, a molehill or a handful of pebbles were quite sufficient to conjure up a whole world of make-believe.
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