Priest

Priest. Illustration: Craig Robinson

People don't really know if you're a real human or not. I was young when I arrived at my parish and lots of my congregation gave me cutlery – because if I wasn't married, I clearly didn't own cutlery. When I started dating someone that was really weird for people. It was weird for me, too – seeing them at the altar rail, knowing that we'd been snogging the night before.

The dog collar can be a help and a hindrance. When I leave the gym, the other gym bunnies tend to do a double take, especially if they've been checking me out a bit. I can walk into a meeting of my peers, fellow professionals, and they won't listen to a word because the fact that I believe in God means that I'm clearly bonkers.

I get to be with people during some of their best moments, but some of my greatest job satisfaction has come from sitting with people who are in pain, either physical or emotional. There are some really poignant moments: last week I helped a lady write a letter of forgiveness to the person responsible for her daughter's death.

You get some odd requests around funerals – people wanting the Countdown theme tune or "Bat Out of Hell". And then you get people turning up on icy days wearing stilettos walking towards a hole in the ground… there's always the risk that someone's going in. But it's the ushers at weddings that tend to be shocking. I had one group who did football chanting during the hymns, and when it came to the exchange of the rings, they chucked a couple of Haribo on my book.

I get asked to pray for some odd things: I know far too much about the continence of my congregation. Sometimes they'll get very upset about something they've read in the Mail and I end up having to pray for whatever's causing cancer in cats this week.

Dominatrix

Dominatrix. Illustration: Craig Robinson

First thing's first: I don't offer sex and I don't allow any body worship above the knee. They might be able to masturbate a bit, but I'm normally a bitch about that and give them a countdown.

It's an incredibly intense environment. I can be in my dungeon for up to seven hours. I'm always checking whether the client is having fun and making sure he or she isn't dying. It's important to know if they have any medical conditions in advance – I certainly don't want a dead body on my hands. I have a couple of code words that the client uses to signal when something is wrong: "amber" for when the client really needs a breather or "red", which is the emergency safe word.

I do all kinds of set-ups: from regular spanking and cross-dressing to cutting and sewing someone's skin. We all have different ideas of what is weird. I have a client with a custard fetish who likes to be put into an inflatable ball, which I then fill with eight litres of custard and roll him around in it. Nothing surprises or disgusts me – everyone has their thing.

Outside the dungeon, I have a couple of "lifestyle submissives" – the first guy, Slave X, has been with me for seven years. He cleans my flat, runs errands for me. Another slave was overweight when he first started seeing me, but I've dominated that part of his life now: he emails me every day with a list of his meals and his activity levels. I think of it as life training. I don't get emotionally attached to any of them: slaves are disposable – they need to work hard to make sure they are allowed to stay in my presence.

People assume I make a fortune, but I don't. The overheads are huge – the rent on the dungeon alone is £50 an hour. I'm sure if I did personal services my income would be fabulous, but it's just not something I'm prepared to do. I see a real cross section of society, from the curious person who's just read Fifty Shades of Grey to married men who can't tell their wives they want to be dominated. For people who are true submissives, a session with me is an escape, like yoga or meditation. I don't think I'll ever be out of the fetish world. I feel completely free and at home in it. Ideally, I'd like to work towards being on a yacht in the Caribbean with a dungeon in the hold.

Brain surgeon

Brain surgeon. Illustration: Craig Robinson

I could teach you to do a basic brain operation in two weeks. But what takes time and experience is doing it without wrecking the brain. Learning your limitations takes years.

I ended up in paediatric neurosurgery because children make better recoveries from brain trauma than adults. So it's more rewarding in terms of outcome and I find children's resilience really inspiring. From the age of six you have an inkling of your own mortality, and most have a good understanding of what's going on. It's taken me a decade to become comfortable discussing an operation with a child, but they have to be able to ask questions. You have to show them respect. Sometimes their perspective is funny; most teenage girls just want to know how much hair you'll shave off.

I don't get upset by my job. I didn't put the tumour there, I'm dealing with what's gone wrong. These children are dying when they come in and I do whatever I can to make them better.

When I trained I worked 120 hours a week, so life is quieter now. I do two 12-hour operating days when I do three or four procedures – unless it's a big tumour which will take 10-15 hours. Other days are clinics when I see 30-40 patients a day. I also have a week on call every seven weeks, which is night and day for seven days. I'm used to working on three hours' sleep.

If people ask what I do, I say I'm a doctor. If I say I'm a brain surgeon, they call me a liar – I'm a council estate boy from the East End, so I don't have the image you expect. I don't mind, though, I think it's funny.

Hollywood agent

Hollywood agent. Illustration: Craig Robinson

I not only provide exposure for my client I also do damage control. We've had clients involved in lawsuits, divorces, phone sex, drugs. One mistakenly took a gun to an airport.

On the red carpet – at the Academy Awards, say, or the Golden Globes – I'm the person making my client look good. The other day at an Oprah Winfrey event the carpet wasn't tacked down properly and my client almost went flying – I had to catch them. They can make some strange requests. At a black-tie gala at the White House two clients hated the dinner and insisted we circle around Washington DC trying to find a Kentucky Fried Chicken open at 1am. I had to go in wearing a gown and order so they could eat it in the limo.

I never worry that I'm spending my life making other people look good – I'm happy for their success. I feel like a proud parent.

Maitre d'

Maitre'd Illustration: Craig Robinson

I have to know who our clients are. It enhances the experience in a restaurant if the guy at the front can ask with genuine interest how you are.

Not everybody goes to a restaurant to have a nice time. Some are there for meetings and – God knows why – but a lot of people come to split up with their partner. The worst customers are those who are drunk and abusive. I've had people square up to me. It's also never great when there's raw sewage on the bathroom floor at 8pm on a Friday night. You're going to have to get your Marigolds on and deal with it yourself until the plumber arrives.

People assume we take bribes for tables, but we don't. Once a guy walked in without a booking on a Friday night with a famous chef and nine friends. When I said we were fully booked he started putting tenners in my breast pocket. In the end we found space in the bar. I didn't give the money back.

Undertaker

Undertaker. Illustration: Craig Robinson

For the first couple of years after I started – I chose, when quite young, to go into this; it wasn't a family thing – I couldn't help but be fascinated by the body. After a while, though, when you're with it, it becomes just a… dead body, to be dealt with. It's the life that was lived that becomes important, and the continuing lives of those left here. And you realise that nobody's life has been wholly mundane. It might have been difficult or unfulfilled or full of secrets. But never dull.

The secrets tend to come out in death. Those of the individual, yes, but also of the family – and I do approach the day as one for those still living. I'm privileged to see them at their very best: death makes the living draw on enormous resources, and I learn more about human nature, kindness and resilience every day. Oh, there's a tremendous amount of emotion about, and occasionally I become the scapegoat, but very rarely. Mostly I learn about love and about the hard lives many people have led; and about sacrifice. And learn again that dying is easy. It's life that's the bloody, bloody hard work.

It's a hard job, in many ways, not least emotionally, and competitive these days – it's a cut-throat business, with the big boys and all their prepayment schemes. But people always expect aspects of depression to my job, and it's been the precise opposite. There's not a day that goes by when I don't feel happy to learn so much about humanity, to feel so in my place, and I don't regret a single minute. It has been, basically, a privilege.

Bikini waxer

Bikini waxer. Illustration: Craig Robinson

It's when my clients are on the bed, legs in the air and their private bits at the mercy of a waxing strip, that they start to get scared. So I break the ice. I put on a sinister voice and say: "Don't worry, no one will hear your screams from here!"

Nothing can shock me now. My friends say to me: "What's it like, looking at vaginas all day?" But I'm not even looking at the body, I'm just concentrating on an area of skin.

My main aim is to relax people, take their mind off what is happening. That is not to say I'm thick. There is a lot of training involved and I can't stand the stereotypes of beauty therapists you see on programmes like EastEnders.

When I'm not waxing, I'm cleaning. I'm a stickler for hygiene, and skin cells create a lot of dust. I have standards and I expect the same from customers: do not come and see me in a state of unreadiness. Unfortunately, our salon is opposite a Bikram yoga studio so you get the chancers who come straight from class and expect me to wax them sweaty. I refuse. There are young women who don't appear to have changed their knickers for days, people on their periods. Once I almost waxed out someone's tampon.

Most people will order either a Hollywood, which is everything off, or a Brazilian, which leaves a thin "landing strip". The original bikini wax, where you'd just remove a small amount of hair, is now virtually nonexistent. Once you've gone down the Hollywood path there's no going back. And it's the same with the back, sack and crack. Waxing the male anatomy is just funny – you can get men who have the wrong idea and think you are going to do "extras", but mostly I'm just trying to stop myself laughing.

Financial adviser

Financial Advisor. Illustration: Craig Robinson

People don't really understand what a financial advisor does, so they think I'm the one who makes the decision on whether they get a mortgage – I constantly have people trying to convince me how well off they are. One friend phoned me up to get a mortgage and we spent hours working on the application before they told me, oh, I resigned yesterday. That person had a master's degree. You think, "How can you be such an idiot?"

I've got a Russian oligarch I've done a life insurance application for. I said, "Any health questions?" and he said, "No, no – perfect health," and then he fills out on the questionnaire that he's been shot three times and stabbed eight times.

I've noticed that the wealthier people are, the meaner they are. I'll be in the house of a client who has a lot of money, late at night, and they'll quibble over a £300 fee. Then I've got clients who live on a council estate and every time I see them they want to throw money at me: "I don't know what I'd do without you mate, have some pound notes!" I have to explain I can't take it or I'll get struck off.

The only thing that keeps me doing the job is that I like people. I hate sitting at a computer and looking at figures. There can be a sad side – I see a lot of death claims and at the moment I feel surrounded by cancer. A lot of my clients have it and it's hard advising them, especially when they aren't going to get to use the pension they've been saving for all their life.

Because I'm financial advisor to almost all friends I know everything about everyone. We'll be in the pub and someone will say, "Bob's bought a new Merc, he must be doing so well…" I'm thinking, "He's mortgaged up to his eyeballs and he hasn't got a pot to piss in."

My own relationship with money is useless. My wife runs the bank account because I can't face it.

Judge

Judge. Illustration: Craig Robinson

When you become a judge after years of being a barrister and trying to make points that win cases, you have to remember that a huge part of what you do is listening. Most of your time is spent listening: to advocates, to witnesses, to defendants.

Advocates often talk too much – and rarely realise how easy it is to make a good point start to seem like a weak point, just by going on for too long. Juries are almost always patient and practical. Sometimes they can be tetchy and very occasionally you have to do something that ensures that a juror doesn't fall asleep. A loud cough, or suddenly declaring a coffee break, usually does the trick.

Behind closed doors most judges, even very experienced ones, are much more anxious about their work than most people might think. We agonise over what we do and the decisions we have to make. Even the smallest cases can feel very important. It would be bizarre to say that as a judge you learn to be less judgmental, but there are times when it almost feels like that. Sitting in the criminal courts gives you a window into the darker, stranger, tragic and dangerous aspects of human activity. You see the complex and difficult lives of the people who end up in front of you. And you realise that your job is not so much to judge them as to ensure that everyone receives justice.

Call-centre worker

Call centre worker. Illustration: Craig Robinson

Working in a call centre, every minute of every day is an awkward conversation. You're in a room of strip lighting, structured like a classroom, full of people fuelled on instant coffee, trying to stay upbeat while constantly being told they're arseholes. You're trained to gesticulate while you talk (it's meant to make you sound more convincing) so everyone's walking round like politicians. It's a really strict environment, strict on punctuality, on socialising. I do mainly sales, some charity fundraising, some market research, and I get about £200 a week, with an extra £50 with commission if I've done particularly well. If you fail to meet your targets for three weeks then you're fired.

It's exhausting. Sometimes on the phone you feel heartbroken, sometimes you hate them. People who say "fuck off" quickly are fine. The worst are the self-righteous men who feel they've won by putting you down. As if I'd chosen this minimum-wage job. I desperately needed a job and was approached in the street. There are lots of educated people there who can't get a job elsewhere. It made me realise you shouldn't judge someone by the job they do. Call centre workers aren't cartoon baddies – it's rare that they've chosen to do this job. Though some people have – some people love it. It's a form of improvisational performance. And if you enjoy that American, high-five culture then you thrive.

It's depressing to be in a room of idealistic hippies doing research for a bank, especially when it's not real research. We're looking for evidence of customer satisfaction for their marketing material. We get through the day by playing games. Like, we try to fit as many animals into a call as possible. "I wonder if you had a few minutes to do a quick antelope satisfaction survey." And, "So would you say the service you received was: excellent, very good, good, fair tiger poor?"

You want to engage them in conversation. You look for any hint of shared interests – mention of somewhere they've been on holiday, or a child studying something you know about. Someone I work with called a woman and asked, as we do, "How's your day been?" The woman said, "My husband's just been promoted." He smelled a sale; she was basically telling him she had money. So he said "Congratulations, that's fantastic!" And she paused and said, "What?" He was confused. She repeated herself, "My husband's just been cremated." Similar things have happened to me. People tell me about how the bank has left their dying father penniless, and I have to go, "Yes yes, but how clean is your local cashpoint?"

After a shift you crave a normal conversation. All day you've been having these prostitute conversations, where you're not saying the things you want to say and nobody wants to listen. You crave realness.

Taxi driver

Taxi driver. Illustration: Craig Robinson

People don't say a word to each other on most forms of public transport, but inside a taxi it's a different world. Everyone's got a story. My day typically starts with a businessperson going to the airport, and nearly always ends with a drunk. I don't mind the drunk people. Sometimes I think they're the better version of themselves: more relaxed, happier, honest. Once, a girl I picked up from a bar loved the music on my iPod so much she made me play one of the songs again when we arrived outside her house. I stopped the car at the end of the drive and she opened the door, lit a fag and danced. It made me laugh.

I do worry about some of the girls who are very drunk. I have two daughters myself. An awkward scenario for me is having to wake a woman who has fallen asleep. I'm very aware that I could be accused of assault and lose my licence. I tend to get a runner every six months. Usually they're lads and you know as soon as they get in. Recently four 12-year-old girls ran off giggling. I didn't see that one coming.

Only once have I feared for my life. A guy ran out at a traffic light and so I sped up before his brother could run, too. He seemed embarrassed and made me drop him at a car park. When we arrived, the first guy was waiting with a boulder, which went through the windscreen, narrowly missing my head. They punched me through my window until I drove off.

But the worst people are the ones who call me "Driver".

Commis chef

Chef Photograph: Craig Robinson

Most of the people I work with can't afford to get the tube in, so their journeys take two hours, but getting the tube means I have time to get a double espresso from McDonald's before my shift starts at 7am. I drink it as I trudge through Soho and think of the hell to come. I'm the lowest of the low, in the kitchen, with no windows, and my mood is one of clinical depression.

Here, it's a badge of honour if you say you've done three doubles, been dumped, are becoming homeless and have the shits. That's ultimate kudos – in the kitchen, that's cool. There's no sympathy, and nobody tells you you're doing well. You have to work through illnesses, because if you're off for a day everyone else has a huge load to carry.

I got treated really badly at the start, nobody would even stand next to me. Eventually I earned my place, and over time my body changed, too – my hands got really muscular and scarred. When you burn yourself on oil you have to wear blue plasters, but inevitably they come off when you're washing veg, so you lose them along the way – sometimes into the food.

When I started, I signed an employment law waiver. The hours are tough. Lunch shifts are 7 to 4, and dinners 3 to midnight, or later, with no breaks. And you have to do at least one double shift a week. You don't eat. There's food available, but it's inedible – noodles, bad burgers. I've never tried the stuff on the menu. And staff aren't allowed real coffee, which really made me realise how little respect the company has for us. Sexism is rife. There's lots of talk about girlfriends' genitals, or "ugly birds", and there's the feeling that if you can't take the banter then you don't belong. As a woman, you don't get on by pointing out the sexism, you get on by putting up with it and joining in. I hate it.

Paramedic

Paramedic. Illustration: Craig Robinson

We see more death, terror, blood, guts and horror in our professional lives than the SAS or frontline soldiers do – they max out in the few years they're at war, but we do this job for 45 years.

In an average shift, we see lots of drunks, we might be called to a brothel or a drug den where people are lying around with needles full of heroin in their arms – dark places where people need help. There are so many terrible incidents: car accident scenes where one parent is left alive and the children and other partner have died. Suicides, especially in young teens, are tragic. But there are heartening moments, too. Bringing a baby into the world; going to see little old ladies who've had a fall and just want a bit of company is nice, too. I make them a cup of tea and we have a chat.

You don't get used to breaking sad news. There's no script, you just have to be honest and comforting. I've learned that it's OK to feel emotional, although I don't turn up a blubbering heap.

It takes its toll. About eight years ago I went through a breakdown. It had been a particularly hard week: a suicide; dealing with a man who had been raping his children… difficult stuff, and I couldn't cope. I'd become cynical and bitter and we were also being hammered by management, who were driven by government targets. If we turned up 20 seconds late but managed to save someone's life, we'd still get told off.

A lot has changed in the past decade. There's now no room to come up for air between emergencies. But what I keep at the front of my mind is the reason I got into this: I wanted to help look after people. I'm still smarting that our retirement age has just been raised to 68 – the average fireman gets to retire at 50. But there's a real sense of self-worth and you definitely get treated differently – people make way for a paramedic.

Intern

Intern. Illustration: Craig Robinson

I've been a fashion-mag intern on and off for five years. Five years! I know. Completely unpaid, yes, I work six days a week for the magazine, then at a pub evenings and weekends. I drink Red Bull instead of having lunch and eat canapés instead of dinner. It's not a game. Most of my cash comes from eBaying my freebies, although that can be dangerous – a friend of mine sold a Christopher Kane piece and now she's blacklisted.

My first day as an intern, when I was 16, was spent trying to get back a dress that Isabella Blow had given to a mate. It's funny – really rich people seem to think everything is free. Living in a fashion cupboard is extremely depressing, not just because it's tiny and windowless, but because you're surrounded by things you will never be able to afford – though, after a while, everything starts to look like Primark tat. One friend wore a pair of thigh-high boots out and snapped the heel. When she sent them back to the designer she stuck it on with gum and swore they'd arrived like that. There's a lot of stealing. A lot. Jewels, couture gowns. I don't take anything because none of it would fit me. Samples are tiny.

There's a lot of bitchiness, too, because you know that, in order for you to get a proper job, the fashion assistant will have to die. I'd definitely be more successful if I were meaner. Also you're in an office of really, really hungry people. The industry would be a much happier place if everyone just ate a sandwich. One editor I worked with banned all food from the office, but I learned that if I offered round sweets it calmed tense situations. This life is all about stamina. If you can outlast everyone else, then there's a job for you.

If I notice myself being mean to someone, it scares me. I can't see anything changing – there's this cycle of abuse. People take fashion very seriously. But we're not curing cancer, it's just clothes.

Psychic

Psychic. Illustration: Craig Robinson

I was seven when I got my first connection. I was asleep in bed and got woken by a bright, shining light. Within that light was a young lady I called Star, who became my spirit guide. When I was 22, my mum died. Star returned. I started to feel lots of connections, like there were people above that I could sense and feel. I receive around eight messages a day now. It's a funny feeling, like cobwebs in my hair. If I'm connecting with someone who's passed away and their death was violent, I can get a flutter in my heart. A child's energy can make me feel warm inside, like I'm wrapped in cotton wool.

My job is mostly to act as a channel between the living and the dead, but I can see into the future, too. I have to be careful how I break news. I'm never going to tell you that you are going to die soon. I made the mistake once – the guy got shot two weeks later – and I don't think it's fair. But if you've got cancer I will tell you to check out a lump. It does amaze me, the influence I have on people. I told a Hollywood actor he wasn't in love with his wife and he left her that day. I destroyed a marriage instantly, because I knew he loved someone else. He's having a baby with her now.

If I don't feel anything, I won't do a reading. I'm not one of these psychics who will sit there and lie for the sake of it. Some people want me to counsel them. They think I work for the Samaritans. I'm not God. I can only say what I see or feel.

Lately I've been working for a famous hotel chain. I accurately predicted the owner had picked a new site with terrible foundations and saved him millions, so he employed me to help recruit his staff. He'll email me CVs and I'll tell him if someone's dodgy. He didn't listen once and the bloke he employed ended up stealing from him. He listens to me now.

Of course, my job has its perks. I don't rip people off. I take home £500 a week and put the rest into growing my business. I clean my energy after every reading by imagining a white light shining around me. Then I go home and argue with my boyfriend, or curse my broken-down car, just like the rest of them.