It tends to be patina, rather than shine, that bypasses my logic circuit and goes straight for the "gloat" centre of the brain. Harcork and Auger floats, Bakelite reels, cane rods... last major lapse was an Allcocks' "Eclipse". That, bent in a quarter circle by a barbel, is a joy to behold, and even better to hold.
The hours spent trawling fleabay and schlepping round car-boot sales don't always pay off; a 14' built cane monster, for example, is unlikely to be deployed until I find the perfect spot for it, which will involve banks firm enough to support a serious rod-rest or three, ten feet of weeds or shallows to reach past, and some roach worth all the bother. With all that leverage against me, roach are about the biggest fish I'd dare try for with it, a chub would have me swivelling round on my seat like a weather-cock. Still, for the price of a fried chicken supper for two, it would have been rude not to.
Unkind, too; unused cane suffers, you know. It hangs there in its bags, pining for a day out by a river, and stops me sleeping well.