The morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Thompson woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer.
Lying in bed with her eyes shut, Margaret conducted a one-woman conversationor rather, a grim summary of her current predicament. *Tomorrow, I turn fifty. Fifty! Thats half a century! And what do I have to show for it? I studied hard, married young, never cheated, raised a decent daughter who also married early. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling kids about places Ill never see, unless a hurricane somehow dumps the Atlantic and the Great Wall of China in my back garden. (Though lets hope nottheyd ruin both in a day.) Three certificates from the mayor, a flare-up of haemorrhoids, and a classroom full of teenagers who despise me. Why bother with geography? Whats the point? To them, Im just wasting their youth on useless facts about places theyll never go.
And lets talk about my looks. The kind people politely call *handsome*which really means, *Shes nice and keeps a tidy home*. Im a pink tomato that occasionally bronzes into red. My hair? The colour of a pigeons wingno, scratch that, just plain grey. Oh, and my husband, Peter? Hes gone and gorged himself on pears. Literally. At his mums house in the middle of nowhere (though a different nowhere than ourssame country, opposite ends, as if were balancing on two cheeks of the same backside). Ate too many unripe pears straight off the tree and missed his train. *Missed* isnt even a euphemism. Next ones not for a week.
Our daughter? Off gallivanting in Japan with her husband because, *Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and this holiday was practically free!* So here I am, facing my milestone birthday alone. Husband: an idiot. Daughter: prioritising free trips over her own mother. No one loves or respects me. They just want food and a passing grade.*
With these uplifting thoughts, Margaret shoved her feet into fuzzy slippers and shuffled to the kitchen, trailed closely by the small, round dog her daughter had recently gifted hera pug named Gucci. The only Gucci shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she opened social media. The first post? An ad: *TODAY ONLY: Webinar”Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess!” First time in the UK! Hosted by self-proclaimed life coach Barry Twistle. Barry won**t promise success, but he WILL teach you to love yourself and not give a toss about anyone else. By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess LIVE on camera. Starts in 30 minutes!*
*This is it! My chance to turn this dull, pointless life around!* Margaret thought, diving headfirst into the magical world of self-reinvention.
What exactly happened during that webinar? No ideawe didnt pay for it. But when it ended and Barry Twistle declared, *You deserve to rebirth yourself!*, Margarets expression suggested shed foundand forcibly extracteda not-so-little princess from somewhere rather uncomfortable.
Margaret was reborn.
Ideally, transformation takes timereshaping your body, educating yourself, earning respect, changing habits. Barry vaguely mentioned *a month or two*, but Margaret didnt have that luxury. She was determined to greet her birthday as a princess, not a sad, overripe tomato.
What followed was 24 hours of chaos.
The princess was *demanding*. She swallowed old Margaret whole within hours. Googling glamorous influencers and trends, she emerged with: eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts (fake Gucci, naturally), and a crop top that read *BABE ON THE LOOSE* with glittery lips and a lolling blue tongue*probably fashionable*, Margaret reasoned.
She also binge-watched micro-courses: *Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes*, *Pole Dancing for Beginners*, and *Deep Throat Masterclass* (free with the makeup tutorial).
The princess decreed Margaret must now answer to *Trixie* and *own it*. *By tomorrow,* Trixie vowed, *youll wake up beside a young, ripped millionaire after a night of passionthen its all shopping, travel, and real Gucci!* (Definitely not the pug.) Margaret weakly protested about love, teaching dignity, and Peter, but Trixie just cackled, showcasing her newfound *Deep Throat* skills.
Then: bar prep. Contorting into the shorts, practising struts in stilettos. Peter, her mother-in-law, and daughter called to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. Trixie? She unleashed years of pent-up ragejust as Barry advised. It didnt feel better. *Maybe delayed gratification,* she thought.
By 11 p.m., *Trixie* wobbled into *The Pub* (a name both bland and baffling). One *Sex on the Beach* later, the pub surrendered. Thats the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a pounding headache and inexplicably sore legs. Hangover-Margaret was far stronger than Princess-Trixie. She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut. *Hallucinating. That cant be former student and serial truant Jake Wilson in my doorway, wearing only boxers.*
*”God, what a nightmare,”* she croaked.
*”Morning, Miss Thompson! Not a nightmare. Dave and Chris 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 dont tell me I with students* Shorts? On. Top? On. Bra? Missing.
Jake interrupted: *”Dont worry, we left you dressed. Just call if you need us.”*
Relief. No scandal. Thenher phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Hello?”* she rasped.
*”Miss Thompson? Its Ben. Ben Carter? You taught me? You left your passport and, uh bra at my pub. I can drop them off laterplumbers coming to fix the bar.”*
*”Ben! Lovely boy! You bought a pub! So proud!”*
*”Well you kinda broke the bar. Dancing on it. Then tried using a pipe as a pole. Snapped it.”*
Trixie immediately scrambled back into the depths Margaret had torn her from. Haemorrhoids shrieked. Heartburn flared. Reverse births *hurt*.
*”Ben, Im so sorry! Ill pay”*
*”Nah, youre my favourite teacher! Last month in Paris, I told my mates all your factsthey thought I was a tour guide! Cheers to you! Ill install a steel bar next time. Dance all you want!”*
The call ended. Daughter rang nextapologising, announcing a grandchild, suggesting *Margaret* if its a girl. Margaret wept, blessing the *night-time cuckoo* (her son-in-law).
Peter called: *”Coming home tonightgot a lift with a trucker. Love you. Buying you a fur coat tomorrow. A beauty like you deserves one.”*
*”I dont need a coatI need *you*,”* she sobbed.
Showered and tea in hand, Margaret sat on the sofa, reflecting. *I have a wonderful life. Exactly the one I want.* Beloved husband, brilliant daughter, sweet son-in-law, students whoagainst all oddsremember her lessons.
She laughed. She cried.
Gucci the pug clambered onto her lap. Margaret stroked her. *”Listen, loveGucci doesnt suit you. Youre no more a Gucci than Im a Trixie. How about Thames? Ever heard of the mighty River Thames? Longest entirely in England, you know”*
The pug snorted (as pugs do). She didnt care about namesjust the scritches.
And deep inside Margaret, the princess curled upfinally silent, leaving her in peace.
