**Diary Entry**
This morning, the day before my fiftieth birthday, I woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame me for lacking cheerfulness. Lying there with my eyes closed, I had a little chat with myselfor rather, acknowledged the sorry state of my life.
*Fifty years old tomorrow. Thats half a century. And what do I have to show for it? I was a good student. Married young. Never cheated on my husband. Raised a decent daughter, who also married too soon. Ive worked at the same school for eighteen years, teaching geographytelling children about places Ill never see and theyll never visit. Unless, of course, some freak hurricane drops the ocean and the Great Wall of China on my doorstep, though I hope it doesntthe ocean would be polluted in a day, and the wall would be covered in graffiti. Ive got three commendations from the mayor and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my students hate me and my subject. Why do they need geography? Whats the point? To them, Im just wasting their youth with stories about places theyll never go. A geography teacher is the most useless part of school, and they dont bother hiding it.*
*Im beautiful in that quiet, unremarkable way people never talk about. When a woman has this kind of beauty, they say shes kind or a good homemaker. Im a pink tomatomaybe red if I catch the sun. My hair? The colour of a pigeons wing, if pigeons had grey wings. And my husband? Oh, hes stuffed himself with pears. No, not metaphoricallyliterally. My dear Peter, visiting his mother in her godforsaken town at the other end of the country (as if were not already at the backside of nowhere), ate too many unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. And yes, I do mean he missed it in *that* way. The next train isnt for a week. My daughter and son-in-law are in Japan, because, *Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and the trip was free!**
*Result? Ill be spending my birthday alone. My husbands an idiot. My daughter cares more about a free holiday than her own mother. Nobody loves or respects me. They just want food from me or a better grade.*
With these cheery thoughts, I shuffled to the kitchen in my fuzzy slippers, followed by my fat little dog, *Gucci*the only Gucci Ive ever owned.
While the kettle boiled, I scrolled through my socials. The first post was an ad: *”Today onlywebinar Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess! First time in the UK! Led by self-proclaimed Dr Victor Holloway. Victor will teach you to love yourself and stop caring what others think (though he cant promise success). By the end, every woman will birth her inner princess LIVE on air. Starts in 30 minutes!”*
*”This is it! This could change everything!”* I thought, and before I knew it, I was lost in the magical world of self-reinvention.
I wont pretend I remember muchI didnt pay for the full experiencebut when Dr Holloway signed off with, *”You deserve to be reborn!”* I looked like Id yanked out a princess, and not through the most dignified exit.
I was *transformed*.
Of course, proper transformation takes timenew habits, self-improvement, reshaping how others see you. The doctor said a month or two, but I didnt have time. I was determined to greet my fiftieth as a *princess*, not a sad, overripe tomato.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
The next 24 hours were chaos. My new inner princess was *demanding*. She took over completely, googling glamorous women, latest trends. Fake lashes? Done. Acrylic nails? Done. New wardrobe? Checkstilettos, denim shorts with *Gucci* scrawled across the back, a crop top that read *”Bold & Free Tonight!”* with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue. (Unhealthy shade? Probably trendy.)
She also signed me up for micro-courses: *”Sultry Makeup in 10 Steps,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* and *”Deep Throat Mastery”* (a freebie with the makeup tutorial).
She insisted I introduce myself as *Trixie* and *own it*. She promised that by morning, Id wake up beside a young, rich gym addict after a night of passion. Something about travel, shopping, and *actual* Gucci followed, but by then, my old selflets call her Margaretwas too dazed to keep up.
I tried protesting*What about Peter? My daughter? Professional dignity?*but Trixie just laughed, her throat impressively deep from the *Mastery* course.
Then came the pre-party prep. Contouring, squeezing into the shorts, wobbling on the stilettos. Peter, my mother-in-law, and my daughter called to wish me happy birthday. Margaret wouldve thanked them. Trixie? She unleashed *years* of pent-up resentment. (Dr Holloway said it would help. It didnt. Maybe later.)
At 11 PM, *Trixie the Daring* strutted into *The Pub*yes, thats its actual nameready for adventure (and debauchery).
The pub didnt stand a chance. One *B52* cocktail later, and my memory cuts out.
I woke with a splitting headache and sore legs. The hangover had Margaret clawing her way back to the surface. I opened my eyesthen squeezed them shut.
*Hallucination. Definitely.*
My former student, Billy Thompsonrenowned truant and class clownstood in my doorway in just his boxers.
*”God, of all the things to imagine”* I groaned.
*”Mornin, Mrs Wilkins! Not a hallucination. Jake and Danny are crashed on the sofa. We dragged you home from the pub last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy some pickle juice?”*
I whimpered, patting myself down under the covers*shorts on, top on, knickers on, bra missing.*
Billy cut in, *”We put you to bed exactly as you were. If you dont need us, well head off. Just ring if you want anything.”*
Relief flooded me. No scandalous headlines. No regrets.
Then my phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Y-yes?”* I croaked.
*”Mrs Wilkins? Its TommyTommy Briggs, from school? You left your passport at my pub last night. And, erm your bra. I can drop them off latergot plumbers coming to fix the bar.”*
*”Tommy! Of course I remember you! Youre a gem. Own a pub now? So proud!”*
*”Not exactly,”* he admitted. *”You, uh danced on the counter last night. Cracked it. Then tried using a pipe as a stripper pole. Snapped that too.”*
At this, *Trixie* scrambled back to whatever dark corner shed crawled from. My haemorrhoids screamed. My heart ached. Reverse childbirth is no joke.
*”Tommy, love, Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Dont be daft! You were my favourite teacher. Last month, I was in Spain telling my mates all the stuff you taught usthey thought I was a tour guide! Im installing a steel counter now. Dance on it all you like!”*
The phone rang again. My daughter, apologising. Shes pregnant. If its a girl, *”Night Owl”* (her husbands nickname) wants to name her *Margaret*.
I sobbed, telling her to kiss Night Owl for me.
Then Peter calledhitching a ride with a lorry driver, home by evening. *”Love you, gorgeous. Getting you a fur coat tomorrowwoman like you deserves one.”*
More tears. *”Dont need a coat. Just you.”*
Eventually, I showered, made tea, and sat on the sofa, reflecting.
*I have a wonderful life. Exactly the life I want.* A loving husband. A brilliant daughter and son-in-law. Students who, against all odds, remember me fondly.
I laughed. I cried. I realised I *like* my unglamorous, ordinary existencemy tinned tomatoes, my routines.
Then my chubby little dog clambered onto my lap, nuzzling my hand.
*”Listen Gucci doesnt suit you. Nothing against the name, but youre no Gucci. Youre about as much a Gucci as I am a Trixie. How about Thames? Ever heard of the Thames? Greatest river in England! Know what its done for this country?”*
Thames (the mop) snorted happily. She didnt care about the namejust the scritches.
And somewhere deep inside me, *Princess Trixie* curled up in her designated corner.
For good.
