Independent, The (London): Life stories: Deal me in, deal me out

"Do you come alive at night?" read the job advert. "You could become one of London's top dealers." Working in a casino? I'm thinking dripping diamonds and heavy velvet curtains, high rollers and Omaha five-card draw. I'm seeing myself through a haze of cigar smoke, manicured and mysterious, wielding a French roulette rake and reprimanding beau monde players with a husky "Rien ne va plus". Suddenly, waitressing is not an option.

Six weeks later, I am a paid-up professional croupier. I have mastered my 35 times table and the arcane arts of "tiers du cylindre" and the "Chemin Shuffle". I've been trained to identify forged pounds 50 tender and catch a card-counter. It's my very first day in the casino, but some things are wrong.

For one, my ball-gown uniform is made of cerise polyester. It has a little "shrug" to match, which is frankly more Queen Mum than Monte Carlo. The casino itself is decked with plastic flowers and built to resemble an enormous money clip (to subliminally persuade the clientele they are "in the money"). It's pure kitsch. And the players aren't gaily kissing dice and toasting fortune. They are sitting glumly, nursing small piles of grubby chips. In a corner on the blackjack table I see a lady who appears to be wearing a towelling tracksuit. I begin to suspect she is only in here for the complimentary sandwiches. This is the demi-monde; this is not cigars but cigarillos.

"Not what you were expecting, love?" says a voice at my elbow. It's my inspector, a bosomy, immaculately groomed matriarch of gaming, who's dealt poker world-wide. "This business isn't like what it was. I even saw a punter in here had his pyjamas on - you could see them under his coat." My initial disappointment began to change to fascination. Here was a formula so addictive it made people neglect to dress themselves in their haste to get gambling.

I'd been worried that croupiers were a prey for lechers but I soon realised that gamblers only have eyes for the ball; that is, for their next big win. Once, a wild-eyed man with a holey jumper joined my roulette game and proudly started to play according to a complicated system of his own devising. He guarded his method jealously from the other players, but I could see him draw a special squiggle every time he won. As he lost, he mimed exaggerated disbelief and began talking sternly to the ball. Fourteen hours later, as the casino closed, I saw him leave, grandly ripping his blueprint into small pieces.

"You watch them punters, they've got fleas," advised my inspector. "Some are scum, some are just plain sad." Casinos, I decided, attract misfits and obsessives, and are all the more interesting for it. But when one evening a lovely lady hung with diamonds sashayed over to my blackjack table, I thought my glamorous cliche had finally arrived. As she pouted and laid high stakes I whispered, "She's more like it" to my inspector, who arched an eyebrow. "That's right, pet, pay him out."