Mr & Mrs Smith

Light and shade, rich and poor, Sydney’s hip Darlinghurst quarter manages to be its own little Hogarth morality painting. The Rake’s Progress comes to mind as Mr Smith and I negotiate a couple of party casualties and step round Mr Golden Pecs 2011 and his friend Ms Perpetual Trust Fund to get to the haven of the Medusa.

Up a flight of stone steps and sheltered from the street carnival by a screen of trees, the imposing red façade of the Medusa signals a former townhouse bang in the heart of the café, art gallery and nightclub neighbourhood. Before we finish buzzing the intercom button, the immaculately buff and irrepressibly charming manager Luke whisks us in and sits us down in the wood-panelled lobby. The marble fireplace suggests this was once the drawing room, the shiny carved snakes spilling over the hearth a witty reminder of the temptations and pitfalls outside. It’s all ladders and no snakes once inside as Luke heaves our bags upstairs – there isn’t a lift – and we admire the pale pink walls festooned with plaster oak leaves and the antler chandelier in the hall. We pass a business room and Luke points the way to the courtyard but these are the only public areas except for the reception.

The Medusa is a very urban kind of place, with emphasis on large rooms rather than communal spaces for hanging out, guessing correctly that when you’re surrounded by dozens of bars and restaurants, most groovsters are going to dive out the door rather than languish in the lobby. Surprisingly, though, every time we do pop our head in the convivial reception room, there's always one or more guests propped on the sofa chatting away with Luke, or one of the other handsome, helpful staff members, like old friends. A cheery American tells us it’s his fifth time here and although originally booked for a weekend he’s ended up staying a fortnight.

Despite the glam decor we’re intrigued to discover that the Medusa also takes dogs, and selected ground-floor bedrooms come with basket and bowl. Mr Smith’s attachment to our Jack Russell puppy notwithstanding, we reckon that Nora by name would have been gnawer by nature and the modern turquoise chaise longue in our room would be too much rawhide temptation. And Luke admits that the number of people who arrive with hound in tow is as rare as the couples who rock up with rug rats.

Tailor-made for a couple’s weekender or an urban bachelor pad, the Medusa’s rooms chime sensibly with the desire to do a bit of light self-catering, with a sink, microwave and fridge hidden away in a cupboard. Our bedroom’s dining alcove is more like a deep balcony and overlooks the Moorish-meets-Mediterranean courtyard, with a view over the rooftops and chimney pots.

The purple headboard above the king-size bed clashes in an acid-trippy way with the swamp-green feature wall behind, but it works and our room has the Medusa’s signature mix of classic bones (moulded plaster ceiling, large fireplace, colonial shutters) with contemporary furniture and eye-popping colour choices.

As an aide memoir to the hotel’s name (so easy to forget after a big night out), the room’s mantelpiece features a glowering bronze bust of Medusa, all flowing tresses and killer eyes. There are several of these in the best-appointed rooms and despite weighing several kilos they’re often coveted, according to the concierge; a guest once invited a hooker to his room who, possibly spotting a facial likeness, nicked the statue and tried to hock it to an antiques dealer down the road. It’s back in place now, after the staff spotted it in the shop window later that week.

Raffish elements aside, the Medusa is a haven of calm and attentive service. No sounds filter into our eyrie and, although there isn’t a restaurant, the hotel’s room-service breakfast choices – granola with yoghurt and fruit, or a three-tiered lunch box full of croissants and pastries (we had the lot) – are delicious. If you want something heartier or hot, the Medusa has a deal with the groovy Ecabar café across the road, and will deliver to your room. We check it out for brunch the next day and it’s very good, but then it’s hard to have a bad meal in Darlinghurst if you pick from the very useful folder in each bedroom full of lists and tips.

After a lazy morning and racy night we're tempted to take the Medusa up on its offer of a complimentary trip to a top local gym, but the surf is up and the delightfully named suburb of Manly beckons. A sparkling ferry trip across the harbour, Manly’s the Bondi alternative, an old-fashioned, seaside ice-cream-and-chips type of enclave where the waves are frisky and the life-savers jog reassuringly back and forth along the shoreline in their natty red and yellow swimwear.

It’s the perfect circuit-breaker before another night exploring the charms of Darlinghurst and the Cross, knowing that, however seedy the scene and whatever time we stagger back in, aunty Medusa will be waiting to light our way to bed.