Hard bitten in Bolton Hill

With a crayon in one hand and a can of cheap beer in the other, I was standing in front of a waist high ornamental cast iron fence I had wrapped in orange seaweed paper and duct tape when a man laden with groceries and three daughters approached me, irate. He wanted to know what I was doing with his fence. I told him I was not harming it by taking its impression. He told me I should ask first, eyeing his 130 year old ironwork for damage. I eyeballed his groceries in return and reminded him he hadn't been home when I set up. Mostly though, I wasn't counting on anyone noticing, yet alone complaining, I muttered to his receding back and vanishing daughters... whaddayou expect living hard by the art school, anyway? Hadn't anyone appropriated it before? And why do I take up cast iron rubbings in the cold damp? As I was packing my baskets into the car, I noticed the eldest daughter writing down my license plate number. I hope nothing happens to their precious fence in these litigeous times.