My life as a rookie medium

Let’s be honest: the transition from "the mate who gives spooky-accurate advice over a bottle of wine " to "the business owner with a booking link" (business owner.. What a thought!) has been terrifying. For the last couple of years, I’ve been handing out cosmic wisdom like free samples at a supermarket, though I have appreciated all my willing victims who volunteered. . Now, I’m actually asking for £25 to tell someone that, yes, their ex is still a narcissist and, no, they shouldn’t pack in their job to become a professional kite-flyer.

The guilt is real. I feel like a spiritual Robin Hood who accidentally started charging the Merry Men for arrow maintenance. I keep thinking, “But I have a Gift! Should I really be charging for something that comes from the Source?”

Well, I’ve realized that unless the Universe is planning to pay my Council Tax or tell my mortgage lender that "good karma" covers this month’s mortgage payment, the answer is a resounding yes.

I had to remind myself: my GP has a gift for diagnosis, and they’re certainly not doing it for the love of the game. The person at the chippy has a gift for the perfect batter, and I don't expect a free saveloy (though that would be nice). Why should my ability to decode the Tower card or play a cosmic game of charades with the Departed be any different?

That’s essentially what mediumship is, isn't it? It’s like a high-stakes version of Give Us a Clue. Spirit doesn't just hand over a CV; they show me a picture of a flat cap, a smell of old pipe tobacco, and a vague feeling of someone who really enjoyed a Sunday roast at the local. I’m standing there trying to translate "Great Uncle Arthur’s favourite pub" while the client stares at me like I’ve got three heads. It’s hard work! It’s mentally exhausting, like trying to pick up a radio signal from Mars using a coat hanger in the middle of a thunderstorm.

So, I’m taking a deep breath and ignoring the imposter syndrome whispering in my ear (I've decided that’s just a low-vibration ghost anyway). I’m finally posting my price list. I’m not selling my soul; I’m just making sure I can afford the posh tea bags and the industrial-strength sage required to clear out the energy of everyone who’s ever asked me for a "quick five-minute chat" that lasted until the early hours.

The spirits seem totally fine with it. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’ve been wondering why it took me this long to realise that my "gift" is actually a "career." It’s time I got paid!