It was in fine physical shape, and every control a joy to use. The visceral pleasure to be gained just by operating the instrument, the tactile finely-tuned force feedback of every action provided by precise mechanical engineering, is almost enough justification on its own for using a Curta.

But it gets better. After a lifetime of using electronic devices, there is an intellectual wonder when the Curta responds to your manipulations with the correct result of a calculation accurate to 11 significant figures. After all, I understand how electronic calculators work; both at the programming level, but also, if necessary, I could build one from basic transistor switches. In the context of my experience, the fact that the Curta actually works as advertised seems close to magic.

Shortly after I received my first Curta, I showed it to an older engineering colleague. It was like watching the reunion of two old friends separated for decades and given up for dead. His face lit up and his hands reached forward and took hold of the Curta with a delicate reverence. I learned that at the start of his career, he was occasionally allowed to use the office Curta when his design required more than the three significant figures provided by his slide-rule. Almost overnight in the early seventies the electronic calculator arrived, the Curta was never seen again, and he never learned what became of it.

Obviously I was hooked, and have since increased the collection to include both an early model type II in all black and two early model type I devices. If anything the tactile joy of using the very earliest type I Curta is more acute than for the type II. Every movement seems slightly more deliberate and the Curta responds with what seems like slightly more emphasis combined with the gentle whir of precision machinery going about its exactly ordained business.

Even though I don’t use my Curta for “real” work – it is really too precious for that – I feel an attachment to it that I have never experienced for its electronic successors.

Just catching sight of a Curta brings a smile to my face still, which is not something that can be said for any of my electronic gizmos.

But first a disclaimer: I am not a habitué of casinos, entering one perhaps as often as twice a year, and usually less. By definition, therefore, some of the following may be out of date. Certainly all of it is highly subjective.

First up, Copenhagen. Actually the first time I ventured into one of these dens of vice and depravation (as I believed, or is it rather, hoped) and therefore in one sense rather disappointing in its intense mundanity. Still reeling from the stiff entrance charge, I was next obliged to hire a jacket for the evening (“all gentlemen must wear a suit jacket on the casino floor”, regardless of how well or poorly dressed they are otherwise).

Everyone was deadly serious and gambling seemed to be considered as very definitely not fun. Also, smoking was compulsory resulting in the smoggiest environment I have ever been exposed to; perhaps this explains the seriousness – noone really expected to live through the evening without contracting a life threatening disease.

Note: tipping the croupier 10% after a win is de facto compulsory, if officially discretionary, and adamantly enforced. It was not an omission I made more than once after being on the receiving end of a stream of Danish invective, repeated in German and finally English so all could gain the benefit.

Amsterdam was fun. The casino is a place to go with friends for an enjoyable night out. Staff are friendly and smiling, and the croupiers engage with the punters and share jokes, empathise with disappointing losses and seem genuinely pleased at good wins. Tipping is optional but widespread, probably due to the attitude of the croupiers, and the dress code is smart casual, which actually seems to allow anything. Bonus tip: the nominal entrance charge is waived if it is, by chance, your birthday.

Gothenburg appears to have a bylaw that requires gambling to be available everywhere and at all times. Arriving by train in mid-morning presents you with the opportunity to play blackjack before leaving the station. Virtually every bar of any size also sported at least one blackjack table.

The casino is a fun palace, very much on the Amsterdam model, and the punters as well as staff are exceedingly friendly and quick to engage in conversation. Tipping again optional but actually the norm. Dress smart casual meaning clean. Probably my favourite casino, but leaving on a good win may have biased my perception.

Berlin and back to the serious world of gambling. The casino in Berlin is surprisingly small for a city of its size, and dominated by poker to a much greater degree than anywhere else I have been. Other table games are limited to blackjack and roulette, and not many of either, combined with a vast over-employment of croupiers. Two croupiers and a pit boss at a table was not unusual. Apart from the poker room where a tournament was in progress, staff almost outnumbered punters and nobody smiled, even when winning. Dress smart, tipping optional.

My local casino in the UK tries for the Amsterdam fun venue vibe, and is very much a place to go with friends as part of an evening out, but once at the tables a certain earnestness descends on the punters and everything is serious just as long as the each play lasts. Tipping verboten and dress for a night out on the town.

Final observation: none of the above applies to the gaming machine areas where there seems always to be an atmosphere of resigned determination among the punters wherever they may be.

A small step, admittedly, but who knows where this sort of thing might lead?

I take it all back. In the vicinity of Gard Nord, Paris, expect to be stiffed for EUR8.00 a half-litre, double the going rate in central Amsterdam and Berlin, about 50% more than Copenhagen, and for a much inferior product.

Visitors are urged to see the statue, and the publicity pictures conjure up the expectation of a proud monument guarding the entrance of the busy harbour.

Well I was reminded again, while watching disappointed tourists this afternoon, that the Little Mermaid is the most disappointing spectacle in town (especially now the Museum Erotica has closed). There are many very good reasons to visit Copenhagen and much to see, but the Mermaid is not one of them: the key part of the name is Little, and so close to shore that it can be climbed without getting one’s feet wet.

So go to Copenhagen, enjoy the city, wince at the price of beer, but don’t waste precious time there fighting the crowds to see the Mermaid; life is too short for this particular attraction.

I have no problem with the format of the Jazz concert. Where it all falls apart for me is when the music falls off the edge of my comprehension, and any reference I can make to the originating melody, or chord sequence, or rhythmic figures is lost and all that is left is one or more musicians jousting with their instruments and each other in bravado shows of technical virtuosity. Which is all very well but the lack of real audience feedback promotes the cerebral technical exercises which override any emotional content that I can hold onto and connect with; however much I admire an artist’s technique (or a plumber’s for that matter) what ultimately counts is the end product rather than the skill with which it was achieved.

I was gently reminded of all the reasons why I don’t do this so much anymore during a recent concert by Branford Marsalis at the Concertgebouw, Amsterdam; I was there as by chance it combined the opportunity to see a musician I admire play in a venue I have always wanted to attend during a short window when I was in the vicinity, and first impressions did not disappoint with very grand surroundings referring to a long and distinguished history of music and, surprisingly, an auditorium which is not raked.

The audience responded as required at all times. Entrance of the musicians was greeted with cheers and applause. Solos were applauded with apparent enthusiasm at the conclusion, ensuring that the subsequent soloist could get into his stride without actually being heard. A mostly standing ovation at the official end of the concert (during which a surprising number used the standing crowd as cover for a quick getaway, a previously unappreciated advantage of the aforementioned un-raked auditorium) ensured an encore, which itself received a standing ovation, carefully curtailed in case the musicians came back yet again.

During this concert my disconnect with the performance occurred within a few minutes, which was a major disappointment because all the best Jazz or rock gigs have their longeurs, which is a technical term for percussion solo, and realising that I was thinking about shopping lists and that the fridge needs cleaning during the first number came as a shock.

Throughout the evening, the only time the audience reacted with real spontaneity was when, towards the end of the final drum solo, something pretty impressive must have occurred as it was rewarded with cheers and applause even before the solo was complete (a real breach of the rules, if you like). I am not a drummer and so all I can say is that it looked pretty fast stuff.

I guess they really like Jazz percussionists in Amsterdam.

PS posted under the influence of Danish Jul beer*

*Kongens Bryghus Julemumme

Actually it just seems like there are many; in reality it is a small group wandering as if lost, imploring everyone within talking distance for “40p for a phone call”. On a good evening I will be tapped by the same character several times.

The whole situation puzzles me: why would someone be, apparently continuously, driven to make phone calls to such an extent that they spend so much time chasing strangers for the necessary? Why do I never see them actually using a phone? Is it only ever one call that is necessary, or a continuous if interrupted conversation that requires constant financial replenishment?

Or, as I suspect, is it an attempt to disguise the process of scrounging the price of the next fix, one small chunk at a time, as an innocent request when seen in isolation? How many phone calls worth do you need to score to buy what’s needed (always remembering the extra 40p for that actual untraceable call from a phone box)? Does it actually work?

From my observations of the participants on a typical evening I would suggest that better returns are to be had working as an illegal on a fraction of the minimum wage.

Or perhaps it is just for a phone call.

“Writers like to think that writing is like Arctic exploration or flying the Atlantic solo but actually it’s more like golf. You’ve got to go out and do it everyday and live by the results. You can brood over it but in the end you’ve got to take the club out of the bag and take your swing. You hit the ball where it wants to go, a series of eighteen small steel cups recessed in turf, on a course that others have traversed before you. You are not the first. You accomplish this by practicing an elegant economy you learned from others and thereby overcoming your damn self-consciousness which trips you up every time.”

Possibly the best summary of how to write, from a greatly accomplished writer, since Wodehouse described the hardest part of writing as “applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair”.

Not his best book necessarily, but well worth reading. I wish I had thought of it – but then I am not a writer I do not play golf.

Once I had become aware of the drivers conversation, I realised that this was not an isolated occurrence; in fact on every journey that I have been on where satnav has been used, the driver and quite often the passengers, have responded to spoken directions, usually politely if condescendingly, as if talking to a child. I have also done this, quite without realising how ridiculous it is.

I think that this raises interesting psychological questions about human – machine interfaces, especially when the machines are personalised, the voice interface is unidirectional and the interaction is intermittent. When the machine speaks an instruction (couched as a suggestion), the automatic response is to respond as if a human had spoken, even if one of limited intelligence. This suggests that we are responding to the verbal prompts as if given by a human we are on friendly terms with, without ever losing sight of the fact that that it is actually a machine – hence the slightly patronising tone.

My observations suggest that the level of interaction increases when the guidance is counter to the intentions of the driver (as when deliberately taking a different route and ignoring directions to turn around). Equally, when discussing what the satnav intentions are, travellers often refer to the device as if human: “where is she trying to take us?” being an example.

However, as soon as the device malfunctions in some manner, or otherwise does something unexpected, it is immediately referred to as “it”, all empathy is lost and we are back in the familiar territory of human – computer them and us.

I wait with eager anticipation the day when the interaction does become two way, and satnav rage becomes common. How would you react if, for example, when venting your spleen at the stupidity of other road users, your car urged you, in a neutral voice, to stay calm?

Then again, perhaps I just travel around with people as odd as me.

St Pancreas is, as far as I can tell, the mecca for these groups, although they appear everywhere. With a vast open concourse to choose from, they queue for the privilege of stopping in the narrow entrance arches. This location, of course, has the added advantage of allowing an apparently innocent explanation for the use oversized wheeled luggage to increase the occupied space.

There is one possibility that I have considered and not completely dismissed, which is that I am the only target and that there is a vast network of agents colluding to track my movements and position themselves to move into action as soon as I appear in the vicinity, which is of course delusional and it is an exaggeration of my importance to suggest I am worthy of such attention (and to what end I do not know). This does not mean that it isn’t true.

Reflecting on this, I am sure, would encourage some to draw grand, positive or otherwise life-affirming conclusions, especially those who aspire to appear on “Thought for the day“. It drives me to thoughts of violence.