Independent on Sunday, The: Croupier school: The first roll of the dice...

I'm about to enter the golden doors of the casino for my first night's work. I have spent six weeks in training school and I'm taking my first step into the fairy-lit mirrored casino hall. But a big top hat blocks my way. "Croupiers entrance round the back." I retreat, and find a sunken stairway at the rear of the building, which leads to a mildewed underground passage where a security man is waiting to take my fingerprints "for our entry system." He adds, reassuringly: "Robbers aren't going to chop your finger off, love. The machine will only recognise a warm finger. Still attached, like."

Inside, the casino underbelly is a warren of strip-lit corridors. In the ladies dressing-room, Marie, a silver-blonde gaming matriarch, helps me into my croupier costume. It's a polyester ballgown with a fuchsia lining and accompanying velveteen shrug. "We've had the gowns specially designed," explains Marie. "Nothing too revealing - we find that leads to complications with tattoos showing. Just an elegant split up the side." Marie stiffly checks me over, and lets out a girlish giggle incongruous with her regal bearing. Then she adds, with seriousness, "Don't forget your compulsory lipstick," and sends me up to the gaming floor with a little pat on the back.

A frisson of air-con and nerves hits me as I go on to the floor, which is busy with trading noises - balls stuttering round roulette wheels, chips clattering, dealers calling, and the occasional sound of a punter slamming a winning fist on the table. The room is built in a big red curve - shaped like a vast money clip, I later learn, to give the punters the subliminal impression they are "in the money". And, like all casinos, it is a smoky limbo, without clocks or windows.

"Step this way," says a voice in my ear. Other freshfaced croupier school graduates - or "Lumpies", as we are called - have arrived and we are due in the hospitality area for our meeting with the big casino boss, Paul Best ("Be the Best"). He's a sharp-suited, quick- talking man, who gives us a warm welcoming speech. "I want to inspire you folks. Now I've got shag-all qualifications. Two GCSEs to my name. But I, Paul Best, earn a hundred grand a year and I drive a Lotus Elise. I've done it, and so could you. You too could be Paul Best." But first Paul needs to warn us of some professional hazards.

"If I may use the acronym of driving: you've passed the test, but you haven't got the road experience. But imagine this scenario." Paul flexes his wrists, warming to his theme. "You, Danny..." (Paul singles him out with a finger; Danny, as eager as the rest of us to impress - and perhaps, one day, become Paul Best - sits up to attention.) "You're dealing black jack to this gorgeous lady. She's dripping with gold, with Rolexes - and you can tell she kinda likes the look of you..." (Danny's expression lifts a little.) "She sees you out in a bar and she sends over a bottle of champagne. You go over, "Bear that in mind folks. Never trust a punter."

Dismissed, we take a quick tour of the gambling floor. I look on as a woman croupier with long blond hair casually deals a heavy game of roulette, impervious to the players scrabbling urgently round her. She handles the hundreds of transactions so smoothly and continuously that her dealing looks like a kind of eloquent sign language. She sets the ball off on a spin and glances at me with a challenging nonchalance. I begin to wish I was back at croupier school.