I blame the parents

Three kids. About twelve or thirteen years old. Wearing the immaculate uniforms of a good school. Walking up a hill, three abreast. The pavement is narrow and the road to their left is frantic with morning rush hour traffic. To their right is a tall and impenetrably thick hedge. When a man comes into view, heading downhill towards them on his way to the station, there is confusion. Briefly frozen, they don't know what to do. The man realises that these daughters of affluent families expect him either to take his chances in the traffic or to press his good overcoat into the wet leaves, sharp twigs and spider webs of the hedge. It has not occurred to them that one of their number should step aside. It's their pavement. It's their world.