For six months, I worked as a telephone psychic, despite having no supernatural abilities. My only real gift was the capacity to sound genuinely interested in a stranger's romantic troubles at two in the morning. Hundreds of billable hours were spent on my living room floor, clad in plaid pyjamas with a telemarketing headset, charging callers by the minute for insights I didn't possess. While some might label this a con, I wasn't a dangerous fraudster—just a lost soul seeking purpose.
The Unlikely Career Shift
This chapter began after I left my job as an editor at a publishing firm to write a novel, supplementing my income with telemarketing shifts from my kitchen table. Instead of penning a bestseller, I found myself cold-calling about energy bills, battling writer's block and a growing desire to start a family. Then, an advertisement appeared among remote job listings: "Work from home! Use your intuition to help others find clarity!" It promised a rigorous application process and a demonstration of skill.
Lying awake that night, I pondered how a psychic interview might unfold—would it involve communing with the dead? In truth, I was likely searching for meaning, much like the people who would eventually dial the hotline. The next day's "interview" was a brief two-minute chat with a man from accounts, who merely asked if I had fast Wi-Fi before sending a contract. There was no trial call or verification of any psychic ability. When asked about my clairvoyance method, I claimed a decade of tarot reading experience—a half-truth, as I'd bought my first deck at age twelve from Waterstones on Hampstead High Street.
The First Calls and Growing Pangs of Conscience
Logging on the following morning, I worried about juggling magical prophecies with energy package sales, but for two weeks, no one called. My psychic profile, featuring a stock moon photo and no testimonials, remained unnoticed. The first caller likely dialled by mistake, as I was the only psychic online at 9 a.m. on a Monday—most psychics, I later learned, work after dark. The call lasted under a minute; a man apologised, said he hated his job but was unsure about quitting. My insightful response—"I'm sensing you're not completely satisfied"—was cut short as he hung up.
Rather than feeling guilty for the deception, I regretted not pretending better. This budget service had a "for entertainment purposes only" disclaimer, but this man deserved more than a depressed editor with writer's block and baby fever. A week later, a second caller, a woman wondering if she should reconcile with her ex, provided my real training ground: teenage years spent analysing crushes over magazine quizzes. She just wanted to chat, isolated in a small northern town where friends and family were off-limits. I listened, offered vague card readings about "nurturing and self-care," and earned my first five-star review—she called six more times.
The Economics and Emotional Labour of Psychic Work
The pay was meagre: 20p per minute, rising to 25p after 14 minutes, with slight increases for over 10 hours weekly. Missing a call while "online" cost £1.50. Making minimum wage was nearly impossible, though accounts boasted of star psychic Luna's earnings through astral projection. As my testimonials grew, calls increased to one or two per evening shift. Most opened with hesitant phrases like "I don't know why I'm calling," revealing frayed nerves and embarrassment. Few sought magic; they needed to talk, and I offered basic, sensible advice: don't quit a job without another lined up, avoid sleeping with your boss, be kind to ageing parents.
One woman called daily about flat renovations, even asking my psychic opinion on Dunelm wallpaper patterns. Common questions involved exes or cheating partners, with callers often knowing the answers subconsciously. I'd expected guilt over fake powers, but they showed little interest in me—they craved a listener, cheap help untangling their thoughts. Apologies for talking too much were frequent, followed by relieved continuations. As a low-reviewed psychic on a budget hotline, they didn't expect Nostradamus.
The Darker Turn and Personal Toll
Initially, I felt no guilt, reading between lines and asking leading questions. But darkness crept in months later. A caller asked if her dead mother was disappointed; I suggested releasing herself from maternal expectations. She spoke for an hour, later praising my impossible knowledge of her mother's character—I'd only listened. Guilt set in, her pain lingering. Expectations rose; one agoraphobic former veterinary assistant called twice daily, relying on psychic advice for anxiety. I urged NHS therapy, but she preferred spending £10 on hopeful futures with tall strangers and travel.
She was vulnerable, easy prey for manipulators, and stopped calling abruptly—I hope she sought help, but intuition suggests she found a less cautious mystic. Twice, I directed clients to Samaritans for self-harm or suicidal thoughts, as per protocol for harmful or explicit calls. Personally, I was as lost and depressed as my clients. Despite publishing four novels and journalism, I struggled to read a shampoo bottle, let alone write, broody and sad.
The Breaking Point and Lasting Reflections
Exhaustion mounted as melancholy and loneliness poured through the phone. I began feeling callers' grief or anger before they spoke—not telepathy, but tapping into a dark wavelength of human need. The more calls I took, the more I attuned to unspoken emotions. I quit not from guilt over pretending, but from becoming too sensitive. The final call wasn't dramatic: a woman idling in her car asked if she'd conceive that month. Her steady voice hid desperation; I offered vague kindness about a baby "on the horizon." She laughed, relieved, revealing five years of trying without IVF funds.
A baby was all I wanted too, and I sensed her gripping the wheel, breath snagging. Instinct urged reassurance to keep her on the line, selling hope minute by minute. Instead, I was vague, and she hung up sounding lighter—but I felt worse, certain she'd call again, her life paused by my words. Sitting in pyjamas, headset warm, I knew this wasn't right.
Legacy and Novel Insights
Ten years ago, as testimonials grew, accounts pushed webcam work, but I valued the pyjama perk. After the fertility call, I logged off. Before leaving, I tried star psychic Luna, who, aided by accounts, noted my pyjamas and crossroads. She predicted "the subject of clairvoyance" would matter to me—a phrase I wrote down. I never finished that novel, but had three children and now publish a book about a webcam psychic's toxic friendship, exploring charisma, empathy, and fraud.
Before quitting, I bid farewell to my first reviewer, who'd moved away, finished A-levels, and chatted about a new boyfriend. She thanked my advice but doubted my clairvoyance. That night, I almost saw my psychic stint as a morally complex service. Almost. The experience taught interpersonal skills, emotional management, and self-awareness—offering inexpensive minutes of attention in a world where therapy is often unaffordable.
