I had the iPad in the back pack, expecting some sort of public space where I could sit and take my time while Madam browsed the collection, but there was nothing obvious, and a cloakroom attendant was intent on claiming the back pack. Under those circumstances, it seemed like a good idea to cut the losses, make my way back to base and remove the footwear in the comfort of the hotel room.
The rest of Art Gallery Road runs through The Domain, intersecting with the northern end of Hyde Park, and there's a fairly handy little path that runs past a fountain and delivers you, in turn, onto Market Street, right on the northern end of the block in which the Hilton is located. Not quite an actual bee-line, but very close to it. No complaints from Hughesy's feet there.
And the early return gave an opportunity to take things easy for a good hour and a half before the shoes went back on and we headed around to the Palace Chinese restaurant in Castlereagh Street for yum cha.
The Palace was suitably buzzing with an encouraging crowd of enthusiastic Orientals, and what we sampled was very good. But there was a problem. Despite the morning's exercise and a relatively low intake the night before, I'd been in a rather good paddock for the last couple of days and wasn't inclined to pig out spectacularly, the way you might if you're not certain about the arrangements for the evening meal and inclined to take sustenance on board in case it's not available later.
So we (or, more accurately, Hughesy's credit card) got off fairly lightly at the Palace, but there were severe misgivings about my next stop where musical curiosity, completist tendencies and a bower bird mentality were likely to encounter notional limits on the amount we're inclined to add to the bill.