On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Thompson woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for feeling less than cheerful.
Lying in bed with her eyes still shut, she murmured to herselfthough it was less a conversation and more a resigned acknowledgment of her miserable state. “Tomorrow, Ill be fifty. Thats a lot. And what do I have to show for it? I studied hard, married young, never once cheated on my husband, 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 drops the ocean and the Great Wall of China in my back garden. But lets hope nottheyd pollute the ocean in a day and graffiti the wall. Ive got three commendations from the head of the council and a raging case of haemorrhoids. Most of my students despise me and my subject. What do they need geography for? Why bother? To them, Im just wasting their youth babbling about places theyll never visit. The geography teacheruseless, irrelevant, and they dont hide it.
“Im beautiful in that quiet, unspoken way. The kind where people say, Shes kind or She keeps a lovely home but never actually call you pretty. Im a blushing tomatomaybe sunburnt red in summer. My hair? Dove-wing greywhat a joke. Just grey. And my husband? Well, hes gone and stuffed himself with pears. Literally. Peter, the fool, was visiting his motherwho lives in the middle of nowhere, just like us, but the opposite end of the country. Like were on one bum cheek, shes on the other, and between us is a chasm. He ate too many unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. And I do mean *missed*. Next ones not for a week.
“My daughter and son-in-law? Off gallivanting in Japan because, Mum, you dont celebrate birthdays anyway, and this all-inclusive deal was practically free! So, here I am, spending my big day alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughters too busy with her once-in-a-lifetime trip to care, and no one loves or respects me. They just want food or a passing grade.”
With these cheery thoughts, Margaret dragged herself out of bed, shoved her feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her, waddling in sync, was her round little dogGucci, a recent gift from her daughter. The only Gucci shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she opened social media. The first thing in her feed? An ad:
*”TODAY ONLY! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner PrincessUK exclusive! Hosted by self-proclaimed doctor Victor Holloway. Victor will teach you to love yourself and not give a damn about anyone else (though success is not guaranteed). By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess LIVE on air. Starts in 30 minutes!”*
“Yes! This is my chance! This could change everythingand its not like Ive got anything better to do.”
She signed up and dove headfirst into the fairy-tale world of self-reinvention.
What happened in that webinar? No ideawe didnt pay for it. But when Dr Holloway signed off with, *”You deserve to give yourself new life,”* Margaret looked different. Like shed yanked out a not-so-little princess through the very spot where her haemorrhoids flared.
She was reborn.
Ideally, shed need weeksmaybe monthsto refine her new self, reshape her body, demand respect, and ditch old habits. But time was a luxury. Her birthday was *today*, and she refused to face it as a sad, overripe tomato.
Desperation breeds shortcuts.
The next 24 hours were chaos.
The princess inside her was *demanding*. Within hours, shed devoured old Margaret whole. She Googled beauty icons, trends, andby sunsethad eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts (with Gucci bedazzled on the back), and a crop top that screamed *”Bold Babe Out for Fun!”* in glittering letters.
Then came the crash courses: *”Sultry Makeup in 60 Minutes,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* and *”Deep Throat Mastery”* (free with the makeup tutorial).
The princess decreed shed now answer to *”Trixie”* and to *”stop being such a prude.”* By morning, shed wake up beside a ripped, wealthy bloke, and life would finally begin. Something about travel, shopping, and *real* Guccinot the dog. Margaret barely understood half of it.
She tried protesting*”But I love Peter! And my job! And my dignity!”*but the princess just cackled, throat impressively deep.
With one last squeak, Margaret dissolved into her new alter ego.
Then came bar prep. Contouring, squeezing into the shorts, practising strutting in heels.
Peter, her mother-in-law, and her daughter called to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. *Trixie*? She unloaded years of pent-up ragejust like Dr Holloway taught. It didnt help. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, *Trixie* wobbled into *”The Pub”* (inventive name), ready for adventureand debauchery in particular.
The Pub surrendered after her first *”Sex on the Beach.”*
The rest? A blackout.
Morning brought a pounding head and inexplicably sore legs. The hangover had old Margaret resurfacing. She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut.
Hallucinating.
Her former student, Billy Cartwrightknown for skipping classstood in her doorway. In his pants.
*”God, what a nightmare,”* she croaked.
*”Mornin, Miss Thompson! Not a nightmare. Dave and Tim are crashed on your sofa. We carried you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a fry-up?”*
Margaret groaned, patting herself under the covers*please tell me I didnt*
Shorts? On. Top? On. Underwear? *Still on.* Bra? Gone.
*”Dont worry,”* Billy said. *”We put you to bed fully dressed. Well, mostly. If youre alright, well head off. Just ring if you need anything.”*
Relief flooded her. No scandal. No headlines.
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Hello?”* she rasped.
*”Miss Thompson? Its JackJack Miller. From school? You left your ID and, uh bra at my pub last night. I can drop em off laterbuilders are coming to fix the bar.”*
*”Jack! Sweetheart, of course I remember! Youre such a good ladowning a pub now!”*
*”Well, about that You sort of *broke* the bar last night. Dancing on it. And the plumbing? You tried using a pipe as a pole.”*
The princess inside her *screeched* and scrambled back where she came from.
Margarets haemorrhoids flared. Her heart ached. Reverse birth *hurt.*
*”Jack, love, Im *so* sorry! Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Nah, dont worry. You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Paristold my mates everything you taught us. They thought I was a tour guide! All thanks to you. Im upgrading the barsteel countertops. Dance all you want.”*
The call ended. Another rang instantly.
Her daughter. Apologising. A grandbaby on the waypossibly named *Margaret.*
Tears. Joy. *”Kiss that night-owl husband of yours for me!”*
Then Peter. *”Coming home tonight. Love you. Buying you a fur coatyou deserve it.”*
More tears. *”I dont need a coat. I just need *you.*”*
Showered, tea in hand, Margaret sank onto the sofa.
She had a *good* life. The one she *wanted.* A loving husband. A wonderful daughter. Students who cared.
She laughed. Cried. Remembered.
Guccinow *Thames* (after Englands great river)climbed into her lap.
*”Youre no Gucci. And Im no Trixie.”*
The princess, deep inside, curled up and *stayed* there.
Right where she belonged.
