Maths on the Back of an Envelope

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THE PERILS OF PRECISION

ENVELOPES VERSUS CALCULATORS

I don’t know when the backs of envelopes first became a popular place for jotting rough-and-ready calculations. Was it before or after people started to use ‘the back of a fag packet’, or in the USA, the back of a napkin?

Regardless of where the expression was first coined, the back of an envelope1 has come to symbolise any sort of rough-and-ready type of calculation that gives an indication of what the right answer will be.

It is the tool that people in business use for quickly checking the viability of a new project. Engineers use it to check if a proposed solution is likely to work. And commentators on statistics use it to help make sense of the myriad numbers that are thrown out by politicians, ‘expert’ pundits and marketers.

On a more mundane level, it’s the maths you might use every day to ensure you aren’t getting ripped off by a so-called ‘deal’ that turns out to be anything but.

It is also maths and arithmetic that can be done without needing to resort to a calculator.

But wait a minute. Maths without a calculator? To many people, this notion seems quaintly old-fashioned, or even masochistic. Why grapple with manual or mental calculations when most of us have a phone (with a calculator) readily to hand almost all of the time?

This is not an anti-calculator book. Calculators are indispensable tools that have enabled us to do in seconds what used to take minutes, hours or even days. If you need to know exactly what £31.40 × 96 is, then unless you are a savant or somebody with plenty of time on your hands, a calculator is the only sensible option for working it out. And I’m probably typical in usually having a calculator – or a spreadsheet – to hand if I’m doing my tax return, or totting up expenses after a work-related trip.

But much of the time we don’t need to know the exact answer. It’s an approximate figure that matters. The point of back-of-envelope maths is to help see the bigger picture behind numbers.

Suppose a sales team has a target of £10,000. If they report that they have sold 96 units at £31.40 each – that’s roughly:

100 × £30 = £3,000 revenue.

That’s massively short of the £10,000 target, even if the estimate is out by a few per cent.

When the government announces a £1 billion increase in health spending, is that significant? Spread between 50 million people? It won’t be exactly one billion pounds of course, nor will it be spread evenly between 50 million people, but with back-of-envelope maths, we can work out it will represent an average of something nearer to £20 (i.e. hardly anything) than £200 per person.

Of course, even these simplified calculations can be done on a calculator. But the reality is that they rarely are.

The argument: ‘Who needs to do arithmetic when we all have calculators?’ is usually a red herring. In situations where a calculation is not essential, most of us do it in our heads or on the back of an envelope, or don’t do it at all.

And there are some who use their ability to figure things mentally to their advantage. I have a friend who made his fortune as a wheeler-dealer in finance. I asked him to share some advice.

‘I have two tips for succeeding when negotiating a deal with somebody,’ he said. ‘The first is: learn how to be able to read upside down, so that you can decipher the documents of the person opposite you. And my second is: be able to do the calculations faster than they can.’

TEST YOURSELF

How is your arithmetic without the aid of a calculator? Try these 10 questions. There is no time pressure, and you’re allowed to use pencil and paper if you want. As you do these questions, you might want to think about how you do them. Are you recalling facts you’ve memorised? Do you use a pencil-and-paper method?

(a) 17 + 8

(b) 62 – 13

(c) 2,020 – 1,998

(d) 9 × 4

(e) 8 × 7

(f) 40 × 30

(g) 3.2 × 5

(h) One-quarter of 120

(i) What is 75% as a fraction?

(j) What is 10% of 94?

Solutions

I can still remember the thrill when I first got a calculator of my own. It was made by Commodore, and had red LED digits and buttons that made a satisfying click when you pressed them. It was a Christmas present, and I was 16 years old. I was captivated. Just being able to enter a number like 123456 and press the square root button was enough to send a tingle of excitement down my spine, as I gazed at all those digits after the decimal point. I’d never seen numbers to such precision before.

There were two things that came out of the arrival of cheap calculators.

The first was that we could all now do calculations that we would never have conceived of doing before. It was empowering, liberating and gave us a chance to see the bigger picture of mathematics without getting bogged down in the nitty-gritty of calculation.2

The second thing that happened was that we could now quote answers to several decimal places. The square root of 83? Certainly, sir, just give me one second – and how many digits would you like after the decimal point?

What could possibly go wrong?

SPURIOUS PRECISION

A tourist in a natural history museum was very impressed by the skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

‘How old is that fossil?’ she asked one of the guides.

‘It’s 69 million years and 22 days,’ said the guide.

‘That’s incredible, how do you know the age so precisely?’ asked the tourist.

‘Well, it was 69 million years old when I started working at the museum, and that was 22 days ago,’ replied the guide.

The thoughtless precision of the museum guide in this old joke nicely illustrates why there is no point in stating a number to several figures if the overall measurement is only a rough estimate. Yet it is a mistake that is made time and again when presenting and interpreting numbers in everyday life.

Quoting a number to more precision than is justified is often called spurious accuracy, though it should really be called spurious precision and we will encounter it several times in this book. It is one of the strongest arguments against the unthinking overuse of calculators. The fact that you can work out numbers to several decimal places at the touch of a button doesn’t mean that you should.

PRECISION VERSUS ACCURACY

The words precision and accuracy are often used interchangeably, to indicate how ‘right’ a measurement or number is. It is certainly possible for a number to be accurate and precise; for example: 74 × 23.2 = 1,716.8.

But used mathematically, precision and accuracy mean different things.

‘Accuracy’ is an indication of how close you are to the right answer. Suppose we are playing darts. I throw a dart at a dartboard and just miss the bullseye. My throw was quite accurate, but if you then throw and hit the bullseye, your throw was more accurate than mine. Likewise … if I tot up the items in my shopping basket and estimate that the total will be £65 while you reckon it will be £70, and the bill turns out to be £69.43, then you were more accurate than I was.

Precision, on the other hand, is an indication of how confident you are in a number to a particular level of detail, so that you or somebody else would come up with the same figure if you did a measurement or calculation again. If you think the shopping basket will add up to £69, you are confident that you are right to the nearest pound; but if you suggest the bill will be £69.40, you are being more precise, and are confident your figure is right to the nearest 10 pence. Even more precise is £69.41. In maths terms, precision is about how many significant figures (this is an important concept – please see here) you can quote a number to.

As a society, we put a lot of faith in precision. If we see a number such as 84.36, we tend to believe that the person who produced the number is confident of that figure to the second decimal place. We might even honour them with the label of ‘expert’ because they were able to produce a number to such precision. But people who produce ‘precise’ figures often abuse our trust, and accidentally or deliberately they imply a level of confidence that is not justified. When we read that 59,723 people attended an Arsenal football match, we are being led to believe that an exact tally was taken as fans went through the turnstiles. So when we discover that the actual number in the ground was closer to 50,000, we feel like we have been conned. 3

When it comes to the use of numbers to interpret the world, accuracy is more important than precision. After all, a measurement that is accurate but not precise can still be helpful. But a measurement that is precise but inaccurate is not just unhelpful, it can sometimes be dangerous.

One of the unintended consequences of calculators is that they will give answers to as many decimal places as will fit on the screen – and in doing so, they tempt us to work to a level of precision that is often not justified.

DRESSING UP NUMBERS WITH DRESSAGE

In 2012 London hosted the Olympics. People throughout Britain celebrated as gold medallists stepped up on the podium in all sorts of sports in which previous GB athletes had rarely excelled.

There was particular joy when Charlotte Dujardin, who had worked her way up from being a stable girl to becoming an elite equestrian, claimed Britain’s first ever gold medal with her horse Valegro in the dressage event.

Dujardin’s winning score from the judges was an impressive 90.089%.

Sportspeople often talk about ‘giving it that extra ten per cent’, but in this case it seemed as if Dujardin had fine-tuned this, so she could put in that extra 10.001%. What was it that made her performance better than somebody who got, say, 90.088% instead?

To understand where her three-decimal-place score came from, we need to look at how the judges allocated marks in that competition.

In the dressage event at the London Olympics, the competitors were required to take their horse through a series of movements, which would be assessed by seven judges seated around the arena so they could view from different angles. The judges were scoring under 21 headings: 16 of them were ‘technical’ marks given for how well specific movements were carried out, and five of them ‘artistic’, applying to the overall performance, with descriptions such as ‘Rhythm, energy and elasticity’ and ‘Harmony between horse and rider’ (yes, really).

Each item was marked out of 10, with half-marks allowed, but some scores were then given more weighting, and the five artistic scores were all multiplied by four. In total, each judge could give up to:

240 technical marks + 160 artistic merit marks

= 400 marks total.

It meant each rider had a total of 7 × 400 = 2,800 points to play for.

There is an element of subjectivity when assessing how good a horse’s performance has been, so it is hardly surprising that the judges don’t all give the same mark. For a particular technical movement, one judge might give it an ‘8’, while another spots a slightly dropped shoulder and reckons it’s a ‘7’. In fact, in Dujardin’s case, the judges’ total marks ranged from 355 to 370, and when added together she got a total of 2,522.5 points out of a maximum possible 2,800.

And this is where the percentage comes in, because her 2,522.5 total was then divided by 2,800 to give a score out of one hundred, a percentage:

2,522.5 ÷ 2,800 = 90.089%.4

Well, actually that’s not the exact number. It was really 90.089285714285714 … %.

Indeed, this number never stops, the pattern 285714 repeats for ever. This is what happens when you divide a number by a multiple of 7. So Dujardin’s score had to be rounded, and the authorities who were responsible for the scoring system decided to round scores to three decimal places.

What would have happened if Dujardin had been awarded half a mark less by the judges? She would have scored:

2,522 ÷ 2,800 = 90.071%.

In other words, the precision of her actual score of 90.089 was misleading. It wasn’t possible to score any other mark between 90.089% and 90.071%, Dujardin didn’t give it an extra 0.001%, but rather she gave it that extra 0.018%. Quoting her score to two decimal places (i.e. 90.09%) was enough.

The second decimal place is needed to guarantee that two contestants with different marks don’t end up with the same percentage, but it still gives a misleading sense of the accuracy of the scoring. In reality, each judge ‘measures’ the same performance differently. A half-mark disagreement in the artistic score (which is then multiplied by 4, remember) shifts the overall mark by 0.072%. And the actual discrepancies between the judges were bigger than that. For ‘Harmony between horse and rider’ one judge marked her 8 out of 10 while another gave her 9.5 out of 10.

A NUMBER IS ONLY AS STRONG AS ITS WEAKEST LINK

There’s a time and a place for quoting numbers to several decimal places, but dressage, and other sports in which the marking is subjective, isn’t one of them.

By using this scoring system, the judges were leaving us to assume that we were witnessing scoring of a precision equivalent to measuring a bookshelf to the nearest millimetre. Yet the tool they were using to measure that metaphorical bookshelf was a ruler that measured in 10-centimetre intervals. And it was worse than that, because it’s almost as if the judges each had different rulers and, on another day, that very same performance might have scored anywhere between, say, 89% and 92%. It was a score with potential for a lot of variability – more of which in the next section.

All of this reveals an important principle when looking at statistical measurements of any type. In the same way that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a statistic is only as reliable as its most unreliable component. That dinosaur skeleton’s age of 69 million years and 22 days was made up of two components: one was accurate to the nearest million years, the other to the nearest day. Needless to say, the 22 days are irrelevant.

BODY TEMPERATURE A BIT LOW? BLAME IT ON SPURIOUS PRECISION

In 1871, a German physician by the name of Carl Reinhold Wunderlich published a ground-breaking report on his research into human body temperature. The main finding that he wanted to publicise was that the average person’s body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, though this figure will vary quite a bit from person to person.

The figure of 98.6 °F has become gospel,5 the benchmark body temperature that parents have used ever since when checking if an unwell child has some sort of fever.

Except it turns out that Wunderlich didn’t publish the figure 98.6 °F. He was working in Celsius, and the figure he published was 37 °C, a rounded number, which he qualified by saying that it can vary by up to half a degree, depending on the individual and on where the temperature is taken (armpit or, ahem, orifice).

The figure 98.6 came from the translation of Wunderlich’s report into English. At the time, Fahrenheit was the commonly used scale in Britain. To convert 37 °C to Fahrenheit, you multiply by 9, divide by 5 and add 32; i.e. 37 °C converts to 98.6 °F. So the English translation – which reached a far bigger audience than the German original, gave the figure 98.6 °F as the human norm. Technically, they were right to do this, but the decimal place created a misleading impression. If Wunderlich had quoted the temperature as 37.0 °C, it would have been reasonable to quote this as 98.6 °F, but Wunderlich deliberately didn’t quote his rough figure to the decimal place. For a figure that can vary by nearly a whole degree between healthy individuals, 98.6 °F was (and is) spurious precision. And in any case, a study in 2015 using modern, more accurate thermometers, found that we’ve been getting it wrong all these years, and that the average human temperature is 98.2 °F, not 98.6 °F.

VARIABILITY

In the General Election of May 2017, there was a shock result in London’s Kensington constituency. The sitting MP was a Conservative with a healthy majority, but in the small hours of the Friday, news came through that the result was too close to call, and there was going to be a recount. Hours later, it was announced that there needed to be a second recount. And then, when even that failed to resolve the result, the staff were given a few hours to get some sleep, and then returned for a third recount the following day.