"You can't go and eat on your own in this town," my tennis teacher told me, "you don't understand these guys here. They are aggressive."

Bored of couples and kids at my hotel, I drove outside of the safety of the walled in spa resort and headed into town.

Holy crap. I like to think that me and the octogenarians have a big mutual love going on but this is due in large part to both parties realizing that flirting is only ever that. In Palm Springs, however, aged golfers and soap stars fear neither death nor rejection and are the most forceful bunch of opportunitistic touch ups I have ever encountered. And I've been to Leeds. Greta Garbo would have hated it.

I was so shaken up I have driven up to Santa Barbara and Paso Robles. Staggering around Los Olivos and Solvang has certainly helped. I am currently obsessing about the Roussanne from these guys. And I mean obsessing. The highliner is also fantastic (blah blah blah Sidewaystastic), as is Foley's Clone 115 and Sanford's rose.

Tomorrow will see me asking a Perrin brother to marry me. Or a Haas.