I NOTICED a little while ago that a programme called The Psychic Show had crept on to daytime TV.

Not the least alarming thing about this was that the show wasn't even on Channel Five (which we could forgive because, as its adverts illustrate, Channel Five has never respected its viewers, believing them to be dribbling morons whose lives would be instantly transformed upon the receipt of a consolidated loan, a multi chef knife set or a hefty supply of incontinence pads).

No, this was on the more respectable ITV1, showing five times a week at one point, which suggest that a laid-back belief in psychic powers is now as acceptable as, say, believing in the lunchtime news.

Yep, put it down to lack of religion, increased open-mindedness or a penchant for the dubious charms of Russell Grant but it seems these days, whether it comes from the stars, via the runes of down a phone line at £3.50 a minute, we are all of us believers.

And I must admit, I'm a bit of a believer myself. Okay, I would rather beat myself over the head with the Yellow Pages than part with £14 to be told over the phone that a woman with dark hair who says my name will bring luck, but I will confess to rooting out my horoscopes in the newspaper when the impulse takes me.

And I'm a rational, logical sort of girl. But do I care that, if I am about to come into sudden good fortune, then so are 1/12 of the population? Do I muse that, while last week's prediction of correspondence from an erstwhile friends was spot on, I have yet failed to find my work challenges significantly lightened, enter a sudden period of affluence or receive a proposal from a man in a fawn poncho? No, I do not.

After all, in this uncertain world, while all around us changes, it's nice to feel that someone, somewhere knows what's going on. (However, I am unwilling to believe that someone is Mystic Meg. A wigged, demon of a woman with the speech patterns of a two-year-old Belgian child has no right dabbling in my future, or anyone else's for that matter.)

But, of course, horoscopes are the soft stuff compared to what lies in store if you really get addicted to psychic news.

Mark my words, soon horoscopes won't be enough. You'll be itching to have your tarot cards read, your runes jiggled and your aura interpreted.

A friend went to a clairvoyant a few years ago, who told her such home truths about her (actually rather destructive) relationship and its lack of future that she decided to pack her bags there and then. Admittedly, I could have donned a headscarf, a pair of gold hoop earrings and a sprig of heather and told her pretty much the same thing myself, but she probably wouldn't have listened.

After all, we take from the psychic world what we need and ignore then rest. Which is why, when that man in the fawn poncho comes a-knocking, I'll be out seeking my fortune.