**Diary Entry**
This morning, on the eve of my fiftieth birthday, I woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame me for lacking cheer. Lying there with my eyes closed, I indulged in a conversation with myselfthough really, I was just acknowledging the miserable hole Id dug for my life. *Tomorrow, I turn fifty. Fifty! And what do I have to show for it? I studied hard, married young, never strayed, raised a good daughter who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling children about places Ive never seen and never will. Unless, of course, some freak hurricane tosses the Atlantic and Stonehenge onto my doorstep. But lets hope notthe sea would be polluted in a day, and the stones covered in graffiti. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my pupils despise me and my subject. Why do they need geography? Why? To them, Im wasting their youth on far-off places theyll never visit. “Geography teacher” is just a useless relic of school, and they dont bother hiding it.*
Im prettythe kind of beauty no one talks about. If a woman has *this* sort of prettiness, people say shes “kind” or “a good homemaker.” Im a rosy tomato, turning red with even the faintest tan. My hair? The colour of a birds wingexcept no bird has wings this shade. Just plain grey. And my husband? He stuffed himself with pears. No, not figurativelyliterally. My dear Peter, visiting his mother (who lives in another godforsaken corner of England, as if were on opposite buttocks of the same miserable country), ate too many unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train home. The next one isnt for a week. Meanwhile, my daughter and son-in-law are off in Japan because, *”Mum, you dont even celebrate, and the trip was practically free!”* So, Ill spend my birthday alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughter chose a holiday over me, and no one loves or respects me. To them, Im just a meal ticket and a grade boost.
With these delightful thoughts, I dragged myself out of bed, shoved my feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind me waddled my daughters recent gifta plump little dog named Gucci. The only Gucci Ill ever own.
As the kettle boiled, I checked my social media. The first post? An ad: *”TODAY ONLY: WebinarDig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess! First time in the UK! Hosted by self-proclaimed Dr Victor Twaddle. Victor will teach you to love yourself and stop caring what others think. (Success not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their princess live on camera! Starts in 30 minutes.”*
*This is it. My chance to turn this dull, worthless life around. What else have I got to do?* I thought, and plunged into the magical world of self-reinvention.
I cant say what happened in that webinarI didnt pay for it, after allbut by the time “Dr” Twaddle signed off with, *”You deserve to rebirth yourself!”* the look on my face made one thing clear: Id found my princess. And dragged her out through the very spot where my haemorrhoids flared.
I was reborn.
Of course, real transformation takes timereshaping my body, self-improvement, commanding respect, changing habits. The not-doctor mumbled something about a month or two, but I didnt have that luxury. I *would* greet my birthday as a princess, not a sad, rosy tomato. And when theres a will, theres an express method.
The next 24 hours were chaos. My newborn princess demanded *everything* at once. She took over completely. Frenzied Googling of glamorous women and trends led to: eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts with “Gucci” scrawled across them, and a crop top that read *”Daring Babe: Free Tonight!”* with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue. (*Probably fashionable,* I reasoned.)
Simultaneously, she binge-watched micro-courses: *”Sexy Makeup in 60 Minutes,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* and *”Deep Throat Mastery”* (a freebie with the makeup tutorial). She decreed I introduce myself as *Trixie* and *own it.* By morning, she promised, Id wake up beside a young, millionaire gym addict after a night of passion. She babbled about travel, shopping, and *real* Guccinot the dogbut most of it flew over my head. I weakly protested about love for Peter, my daughter, and a teachers dignity, but Trixie just cackled, showcasing her new throat skills.
One last squeak of resistancethen I vanished into my new alter ego.
Prepping for the club was a mission. Contorting into those shorts, practicing stilettos, slapping on *”Sexy Makeup.”* Meanwhile, Peter, my mother-in-law, and my daughter called to wish me happy birthday. Old me wouldve thanked them. Trixie? She unloaded *years* of pent-up ragejust as “Dr” Twaddle advised. It didnt feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 p.m., a *”Glamorous Babe Ready for Adventure (and Debauchery)”* wobbled into *The Pub* (yes, thats its name). *The Pub* surrendered after one *”B-52″* cocktail.
Thats the last thing I remember.
Waking up, my head throbbed. So did my legs. The hangover had subdued Trixie, and *I* was back in control. I opened my eyesthen shut them. *Hallucinating.* My former student, the class clown *Liam Carter*, stood in my doorway in his boxers.
*”God, of all the things to imagine,”* I groaned aloud.
*”Mornin, Miss! Not a hallucination. Jake and Tom are asleep on your sofa. We brought you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a fry-up?”*
I *whimpered,* patting myself under the covers. Still in the shorts, top, and knickers. No bra.
*”Dont worry,”* Liam said. *”We put you to bed as-is. Need anything, just ring. Well fetch it.”*
Relief washed over me. Nothing scandalous.
Then my phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Yes?”* I croaked.
*”Miss? Its DannyDanny Cooper. From school? You left your passport at my pub. And, uh your bra. I can drop em off tonight. Builders are here nowfixing the bar.”*
*”Danny! Of course I remember! Youre a love. Running a pub now? So proud!”* Memories of last night trickled back.
*”Not exactly. You, uh danced on the bar. Cracked it. Then tried to use a pipe as a pole. Snapped that too.”*
Terror sent *Trixie* scrambling back to where she came from. My haemorrhoids *ached.* Reverse birth is no picnic.
*”Danny! Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Nah, dont worry. You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Spaintold my mates all your stories. They thought I was a tour guide! Never even been before. All thanks to you. Ill reinforce the bar. Dance on it whenever!”*
The moment he hung up, my daughter calledapologising, announcing a grandchild (*”If its a girl, well name her after you!”*). I sobbed, begging her to kiss her husband.
Then Peter rang. *”Home tonight, love. Hitching a ride with a trucker mate. And Im buying you a fur coat. A beauty like you deserves one.”*
I cried harder. *”Dont need a coat. Just you.”*
After a shower and a giant cuppa, I sat on the sofa, reflecting.
I have a *wonderful* life. Exactly the one I want. A loving husband. A brilliant daughter and son-in-law. Pupils who care. I *like* my unglamorous, ordinary worldmy jars of homemade jam, my routines.
Sometimes I laughed. Sometimes I cried.
Then my chubby little dog clambered onto my lap, nuzzling for pets. I stroked her. *”Listen Gucci doesnt suit you. Youre no Gucci. Like Im no Trixie. How about Thames? Ever heard of the Thames? Largest river in”*
The pug snorted happily. She didnt care. Just wanted scratches.
Deep inside me, the princess curled up*permanently.* She knew better than to ruin my life again.
