On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke up in a foul mood. Honestly, given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer.
She lay in bed, eyes still shut, conducting a rather one-sided conversationor more accurately, listing the many ways life had left her in a proper pickle. *Tomorrow, I turn fifty. Fifty! And what do I have to show for it? I studied hard, married young, never so much as glanced at another man. Raised a good daughter, who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling children about places Ive never been and never will. Unless, of course, a freak hurricane drops the Atlantic and the Great Wall of China in my back garden. But lets hope not, because the ocean would be clogged with rubbish within a day, and the wall graffitied beyond recognition. Ive got three certificates from the local MP and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my students despise me and my subject. Why do they need geography? Why bother? To them, Im just wasting their youth rambling on about places theyll never see. Geography teacher might as well be code for utterly pointless.*
*Im beautifulin that special way no one likes to mention. When a woman has *this* kind of beauty, people just say shes kind or a good homemaker. Im a pale tomatomaybe a sunburnt one if Im unlucky. My hairs the colour of well, no bird has wings this dull. Just grey. And my husband? Hes gone and stuffed himself with pears. No, not metaphoricallyliterally. My darling Peter, visiting his dear mum (who lives in the middle of nowhere, just like us, only at the opposite end of the countrysame backside, different cheek), ate so many unripe pears straight from the tree that he missed his train. And I do mean *missed*not a euphemism. The next ones not for a week. Meanwhile, my daughter and her husband are off in Japan because, Mum, you dont celebrate birthdays anyway, and this holiday was basically free! So, guess whos spending her birthday alone? My husbands an idiot, my daughters prioritised free flights over her own mother, and no one loves or respects me. All anyone wants from me is a meal or a better grade.*
With these uplifting thoughts, Margaret shuffled into her fluffy slippers and padded to the kitchen, her little fat pug, *Chanel*, waddling after her. The only *Chanel* shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she absentmindedly scrolled through social mediaonly to be greeted by an ad: *Today only! Webinar: “Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess.” First time in the UK! Led by self-proclaimed guru Dr. Victor Flimflam. Victor will teach you to love yourself and not give a toss about anyone else. (Results not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their inner princesslive on camera! Starts in 30 minutes.*
*This is it! My ticket out of this dreary life! And its not like Ive got anything better to do.*
She signed up.
What happened during that webinar remains a mysterynone of us paid for it, after all. But when it ended, and Dr Flimflam uttered his final, *You deserve to rebirth yourself anew,* Margaret looked different. Like shed found *something* inside herselfpossibly a princess, possibly something elseand yanked it out via the same route as her haemorrhoids.
Margaret Elizabeth was reborn.
In an ideal world, transformation takes timetoning up, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. Flimflam had mumbled something about a month or two, but time wasnt on her side. She *would* greet her fiftieth as a princess, not a sad, overripe tomato.
Desperation breeds efficiency. The next 24 hours were chaos.
This new princess was *demanding*. She consumed Margarets former self whole, then immediately Googled hot celebrities and latest trends. The results? Eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, six-inch stilettos, denim shorts emblazoned *Chanel*, and a crop top reading *Bad Girl Free Tonight* with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue (questionably fashionable, but surely *that* was the point?).
She also signed up for micro-courses: *Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes,* *Pole Dancing for Beginners,* and *Deep Throat Mastery* (free with the makeup tutorial).
Princess Margaretno, *Trixie* nowcommanded her to introduce herself as such and *stop being such a wet lettuce.* She promised that by morning, shed wake up beside a buff, wealthy twenty-something after a night of passion, and life would *finally* begin. She babbled about travel, shopping, and *Chanel* (definitely not the dog). Most of it went over Original Margarets head.
Margaret weakly protested*But I love Peter! And my daughter! And my professional dignity!*but Trixie just cackled, showcasing her newly acquired *deep throat* skills.
With one last squeak, Margaret dissolved entirely into her new alter ego.
Then came preparations: contouring, squeezing into shorts, practising strutting in heels. Mid-makeover, Peter, her mother-in-law, and her daughter called to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. Trixie, however, unleashed *years* of pent-up grievancesjust as Flimflam had instructed. It didnt feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 p.m., *Trixie the Daring* wobbled into *The Pub* (a name both straightforward and inexplicable), ready for adventureespecially the scandalous kind.
*The Pub* never stood a chance. One *Sex on the Beach* later, and Trixie owned the place.
Thats the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a pounding headacheand inexplicably sore legs. Hangovers, it seemed, favoured Original Margaret over Trixie. She peeled open her eyes, then shut them tight.
*Hallucinations. Wonderful.*
Because standing in her bedroom doorwayin nothing but boxerswas her former student, the class dunce, *Kevin Briggs*.
*God, why this?* she groaned aloud.
*Mornin, Miss! Not a hallucination. Also, Dave Thompson and Mike Carter are asleep on your sofa. We dragged you home from the pub last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a fry-up?*
Margaret whimpered, patting herself down under the covers. *Please let me be dressed.* Shorts? Check. Top? Check. Underwear? Check. Bra? *Missing.*
Kevin, ever the gentleman, added, *We, uh, put you to bed as-is. If youre alright, well head off. Just call if you need anything.*
Relief flooded her. No scandalous headlines today.
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
*Hello?* she croaked.
*Miss? ItsuhTom. Tom Wilkinson. From school? You left your purse at my pub last night. And, uh your bra. I can drop them off laterbuilders are coming to fix the bar.*
*Tom! Lovely boy! Oh, the brathank you!* Memories of last night trickled back.
*Yeah, no worries. Just, uh you sort of broke the bar. And the plumbing. When you tried pole dancing on a pipe.*
At this, Trixie *screeched* internally, scrambling back into the depths Margaret had torn her from. Haemorrhoids flared. Heart palpitated. Reverse childbirth was *not* painless.
*Tom! Im *so* sorry! Ill pay for everything!*
*Nah, dont worry! You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Italytold my mates all the stuff you taught us. They thought I was a tour guide! All thanks to you. Anyway, Im getting a steel bar installed. You can dance on that all you like.*
The phone rang againher daughter, apologising, announcing a grandchild on the way. *If its a girl, were naming her Margaret.*
Cue happy sobbing.
Another callPeter, hitching a ride with a lorry mate, swearing hed buy her a *proper fur coat* because *a stunner like you deserves one.*
More tears. *I dont need a coatI just need *you*.*
Eventually, she hauled herself up, showered, and slumped onto the sofa with a giant cuppa.
Life, she realised, was *lovely*. Exactly as she wanted it. A doting husband, a wonderful daughter, brilliant students. She *liked* her unglamorous, ordinary existenceher jars of homemade jam, her comfy routines.
She laughed. She cried.
Then *Chanel*no, *Thames* now (because *what kind of pug is called Chanel?*)clambered onto her lap, demanding cuddles.
*Youre not a Chanel, are you? More of a Thames. And do you know how important the River Thames is? Longest in England, you know*
*Thames* snorted (as pugs do) and nuzzled her hand. Names didnt matteronly the scratches.
Deep inside, *Trixie* gave one last whimper and burrowed into oblivion, where she belonged.
Margaret Elizabeth smiled. Life was just fine.
