TOO many years ago, over many misspent months in the southwest of England, there were four of us who would meet every week for a game of contract bridge.

The three people that I played with every Friday night were complete strangers. We had, all of us, met by means of an imaginary handbill hastily stapled to the walls of a virtual notice board, located in some dreary and dusty corner of the Student's Union website that advertised for bridge companions. In a world where everyone else played poker (of the Texas Hold 'Em variety) neither of us had much hope of finding many compatriots. We did however find each other.

There was very little conversation during our long and arduous sessions. We would come, we would play our tricks, and we would leave. We knew just enough about each other to be workable partners in the game. We quite enjoyed the anonymity.

One evening, as we were all preparing to leave, we noticed that one of our group, an aspiring magician, had taken a small object from his pocket and was playing with it in his hands.

Curious, we asked him what it was. He told us, that it was a "toad stone". He explained that such stones were incredibly rare and were thought to ward off evils and provide those who carried it with protection. They were believed to bring good luck and, throughout history, have helped many a card player.
He told us that he could prove it. He asked us: "How often do you deal a singleton?" (A singleton is a card that is the only one of its suit in a particular hand. In bridge, that would be the only card of its suit in a hand of 13. Most bridge players are convinced that singletons are comparatively rare. And so were we.)

We gave him our opinions, and he offered to bet, that with the aid of his toad stone, he would deal at least one hand with a singleton. He proceeded to place the stone on the back of the deck and then shuffled it several times, carefully making sure the stone had come into contact with all the cards.

He then returned the stone to his pocket and handed the deck to me. He told me to deal four hands face up, and then another, and another, and another after that. I kept going, and the results, I can tell you, were astounding, as the singletons kept coming up.

We were floored. We were duped. Little did we know, that statistically speaking, every five out of six deals would result in a singleton. If all he did was demonstrate the statistical, then his only achievement would have been to prove us wrong of our initial assumptions. Instead, our magician friend, with his artful misdirections, had very cleverly taken advantage of our collective ignorance. And he had done it very well.

He had drawn us to him, making us initiate the conversation. He didn't employ any fancy shuffles or flourishes. He made it look easy and smooth. He kept his voice honest and upbeat. His words were well paced. He looked us in the eye at all times, occasionally shrugging his shoulders, like nothing really mattered. His arms were always almost fully extended. Everything was open and everything was completely fair. Because to get someone to believe you, or at least come close, you'll need to convincingly rid them of all suspicion.

He smiled a lot.

And when he was done, channelling Blanche DuBois, he exclaimed loudly: "I don't want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic. I try to give that to people. I do misrepresent things. I don't tell truths. I tell what ought to be truth."

His illusion employed absolutely no trickery whatsoever. His only deception was to disguise the fact that there was no trickery. He did nothing more deceptive than speak convincingly. And with that, the very same stone, which had absolutely no effect on the cards, had an acute affect on our minds. He created meaning where there was none. And from that meaning, he created drama. And we believed him.

Because the greatest illusions aren't those that deceive you, but those that convince you otherwise. It isn't a matter of unquestioning belief, but rather the suspension of disbelief. The audience doesn't really believe the magic to be real, they merely fail to disbelieve it.

As complicated as it is to pull a rabbit out of a hat, or saw a woman in half, or make a dove disappear and reappear at will, it is so much harder to convince your audience that what you're doing is real. All that matters is what your audience sees, and hears, and thinks.

Great magic is all psychology. Great magic doesn't take place on a stage but in our minds.

Great magic is a lot like politics. Because what happens on its stage is of very little consequence. Its only importance lies in how it affects the thinking of those watching.

It is the 16th of September, 2008. And we do not know what, if anything, will happen. We do not know what, if anything, is going on. All we're doing is watching closely.