On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. Lying in bed with her eyes still shut, she muttered to herself, more stating facts than anything: *Tomorrow I turn fifty. Thats so old. And what do I have to show for it? I worked hard in school. 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, by some miracle, the Atlantic Ocean crashes into my garden and brings the Great Wall of China with it. But I hope not, because the ocean would be polluted in a day, and the wall graffitied within hours. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of hemorrhoids. Most of my students hate me and my subject. What do they need geography for? Why bother? To them, Im wasting their youth talking about places theyll never go. The geography teacheruseless, they say, and they dont hide it. Im beautiful in that quiet way no one talks about. When a woman has this kind of beauty, people just say shes kind or a good homemaker. Im a pink tomato, maybe a red one if I get sunburnt. My hairs the colour ofwell, nothing poetic, just plain grey. And then theres my husband, who gorged himself on pears. Literally. My dear Peter, visiting his mother in some godforsaken town at the other end of the countryas if were living on opposite cheeks of the same backsideate too many unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. And yes, he literally missed it. The next one isnt for a week. My daughter and son-in-law are off in distant Japan because, *Mum, you dont celebrate birthdays anyway, and the trip was practically free.* So, here I am, spending my milestone birthday alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughter cares more about a free holiday than her own mother. No one loves or respects me. They just want food from me or a better grade.*
With these decidedly uncheerful thoughts, Margaret shuffled into her fuzzy slippers and padded to the kitchen. Behind her waddled a plump little pug named Posha recent gift from her daughter. The only *Posh* shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she checked her social media. The first post was an ad: *”Today only! Webinar: ‘Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess.’ First time in the UK! Hosted by self-proclaimed life coach Victor Holloway. Learn to love yourself, ignore the haters. (Success not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess live on screen. Starts in 30 minutes.”*
*”This! This is my chance to turn my dull, miserable life around! And its not like I have anything better to do,”* she thought, plunging headfirst into the magical world of self-reinvention.
What exactly happened in that webinar remains a mysteryshe hadnt paid for a spectator passbut when it ended and “Coach” Holloway declared, *”You deserve to be reborn,”* Margaret looked like shed yanked out not just a princess but a full-blown queen, dragging her through the very spot where her hemorrhoids throbbed.
Margaret Elizabeth was reborn.
Ideally, transformation takes timeworking on her figure, self-improvement, commanding respect, changing habits. The faux coach had mentioned weeks, maybe months. But time was a luxury she didnt have. She was determined to greet her birthday as a princess, not a wilted tomato.
And where theres a will, theres an *express* method.
The next 24 hours were chaos. The newborn princess demanded *everything*, *now*. She devoured Google images of glamour, trends, and tutorials. The results: eyelash extensions, manicured nails, stilettos, denim shorts branded *Posh*, and a crop top declaring *”Wild Child Up for Fun”* with tacky red lips and a lolling blue tongue*probably fashionable*, Margaret reasoned.
She also binge-watched micro-courses: *”Sultry Makeup in 60 Minutes,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* and *”Deep Throat Basics”* (free with the makeup tutorial).
The princess decreed that Margaret now answer to *Trixie* and *own it*. By morning, shed wake up beside a buff millionaire after a night of passion, and life would be *different*. Something about travel, shopping, and *Posh*definitely not the pug. Most of this was gibberish to the original Margaret, who weakly protested about love, family, and professional dignity. The princess just cackled, displaying her newly mastered deep-throat technique.
With a final whimper, Margaret dissolved into her alter ego.
Then came bar prep: contouring, squeezing into shorts, practicing struts in heels. Meanwhile, Peter, her mother-in-law, and daughter called to wish her happy birthday. The old Margaret wouldve thanked them. *Trixie*, however, unleashed years of pent-up bitternessjust as “Coach” Holloway advised. It didnt feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, a *Radiant Trixie, Ready for Mischief*, swayed into *The Pub*a bar so unoriginal it was named *The Pub*. One *Irish Car Bomb* later, *The Pub* surrendered.
Thats the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a pounding headache and inexplicably sore legs. The hangover had, oddly, revived Margarets original personality. She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut.
*Hallucinations.* Her former student, troublemaker Liam Carter, stood in her doorway in his boxers.
*”God, why would I hallucinate this?”* she groaned aloud.
*”Mornin, Mrs. Elizabeth! Not a hallucination. Jake and Tom are crashed on your sofa. We dragged you home from the pub last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a fry-up?”*
Margaret moaned, patting herself under the covers, dreading the worst. Shorts? On. Top? On. Underwear? *Thank God.* No bra.
Liam interrupted her inspection: *”Dont worry, we left you as is. If youre alright, well head off. Just ring if you need anything.”*
Relief flooded her. No scandal, no tabloid-worthy regrets.
Her phone rang. Unknown number. She croaked, *”Hello?”*
*”Mrs. Elizabeth? Its HarryHarry Wilson, from school? You left your passport at my pub last night. And, uh your bra. I can drop em off latergot plumbers coming to fix the bar.”*
*”Harry! Of course I remember! Youre a love. Running a pub now? So proud!”*
*”Not exactly running it. You, uh danced on the counter last night. Cracked it. Then tried to swing from a pipe. Snapped clean off.”*
At this, the princess scrambled back into the depths shed been dragged from. Hemorrhoids shrieked. Heartburn flared. Reverse birth was *not* painless.
*”Harry! Im so sorry! Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Nah, dont worry! You were my favourite teacher. Last month in Spain, I told my mates all the stuff you taught usthey thought I was a tour guide! Never even been before. All thanks to you. Ill reinforce the bar. Next time, dance all you want!”*
The phone rang again. Her daughter, apologising, hinting at a grandchild*”If its a girl, well name her Margaret.”*
Tears flowed. *”Kiss that night owl husband of mine for me!”*
Another call. Peter, hitching a ride with a trucker, promised to be home by evening. *”Love you. Getting you a fur coata beauty like you deserves one.”*
*”I dont need a coat,”* she wept. *”Just you.”*
Showered and tea in hand, she sank onto the sofa. Sipping, she realised: *Her life was wonderful.* Exactly as she wanted it. A loving husband, a brilliant daughter, kind students. She adored her unglamorous, ordinary worldher jars of homemade jam, her routines. She laughed, she cried, remembering little joys.
The pug clambered onto her lap, nuzzling for pets.
*”Listen Posh doesnt suit you. Nothing against the name, but youre no more *Posh* than Im *Trixie*. How about *Thames*? Unusual, meaningful. Do you know how vital that river is? The longest in England, shaping history”*
The pug*Thames*snorted happily. She didnt care about names, only the scritches.
Deep inside Margaret, the princess curled into her dark corner*stay there, and dont ruin things.*
**Lesson learned:** Happiness isnt in reinventing yourself, but in loving who you already areflaws, routines, and all. Even if it takes a disastrous night out to remember it.
