Give us a kiss, whoever you are

Hillcrest. I realise that a reference in an earlier posting to the Hillcrest soprano voice might not have meaning to those of you - ie, 99.9% of the population of Planet Earth - who have not visited this particular quarter of San Diego. Hillcrest is where the ladies wear sensible shoes and don't smile at men, and where the men mostly mince and don't smile at women, if you catch my drift.
To both of these variations on the human template, I am invisible, being aged and decrepit. In fact, if they notice me at all, they tend to be very nice to me: to the lesbians, I am no threat, and to the gays, I am not worth the effort.
But it's not all same-sex stuff in Hillcrest. I did recently see a hetero couple on the corner of University and Fifth having a quick snog, but they were quickly arrested by the Police ("San Diego's Finest") on the grounds that their action was provocative and likely to cause a breach of the peace.
By the way, the reason I go to Hillcrest is that my favourite restaurant is there. You remember? The one with Chicken Piccata, Argentinian Keiken Red and the lovely friendly waitress, Gail.
Honestly.