The Adelphi Hotel is a five-star, boutique, minimalist hotel on Flinders Lane, in the heart of the Melbourne CBD. It has a salt-water pool on the tenth floor. You can see a metre of it popping out from the roof, sloshing. I’ve snuck into many hotel pools in the CBD. I’ve been doing it for years, but the Adelphi is the jewel in the crown.
It looks a bit complicated, so I stand across the street and just watch for a while as people flow past. No-one takes notice of me. I’m a little dude wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt on a summer day in the city. I’m watching the entrance. I see some guy about to go in. I cross the road fast-casual and cruise in behind. The receptionist nods at me as I coat-tail the man into the lift. I make like I’m looking for my room key; he uses his and activates the lift. He’s wearing a yellow jumper and bright-pink pants and is like a rotund version of the host of Great British Railway Journeys, Michael Portillo, who was a train-loving Thatcherite. He also reminds me of an overfed canary. He looks at me.
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