On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Whitmore woke up in a foul mood. And frankly, given recent events, no one could blame her for the lack of cheer.
Lying in bed with her eyes still shut, she conducted a rather one-sided conversationmore of a grim inventory of her lifes current state: *Fifty tomorrow. Fifty! Thats a lot. And what do I have to show for it? I did well in school. Married young. Never cheated. 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 Atlantic and the Great Wall of China on my doorstep. Though lets hope not, because the ocean would be polluted within a day, and the wall covered in graffiti. Ive got three certificates from the local council and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my students hate me and my subject. Why do they need geography? Why any of it? To them, Im just wasting their youth on stories about places theyll never go. Geography teacher might as well be a swear word, and they dont bother hiding it. Im beautiful in that special way people dont talk aboutwhen a woman has that kind of beauty, they say shes kind and a good homemaker. Im a pink tomatomaybe red if I get a tan. My hairs the colour ofwell, nothing grand, just grey. Oh, and my husbands gone and stuffed himself with pears. Literally. My dear Peter, visiting his mum (who lives in the back of beyondjust like us, but the other end of the country, as if were on separate buttocks of the same miserable backside), gorged on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Again, not a metaphorhe literally missed it. Next ones not for a week. My daughter and son-in-law are off in Japan because, Mum, you dont even celebrate, and the trip was basically free. So, happy birthday to mealone. My husbands an idiot, my daughters night-owl husband and his free holiday matter more than her own mother. No one loves or respects me. They just want food from me or a grade bump.*
With these cheery thoughts, Margaret hauled herself out of bed, stuffed her feet into fuzzy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her, waddling in perfect sync, was a plump little dog named Guccirecently gifted by her daughter. The only Gucci Margaret would ever own.
Putting the kettle on, she opened her social media. The first thing in her feed? An ad: *Today only! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Led by Dr. Victor Twaddle (not actually a doctor). Learn to love yourself and stop caring what others think! (Success not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their princess live on camera. Starts in 30 minutes!*
*This! This is my chance! This could turn my dull, pointless life around. And its not like Ive got anything better to do.*
She signed up and dove headfirst into the magical world of self-reinvention.
What exactly happened during that webinar? No ideawe didnt pay for it. But by the time Dr. Twaddle uttered his final, *You deserve to be reborn,* Margarets expression made it clear shed found *something* inside herselfpossibly a princess, possibly something elseand yanked it out through a place already suffering from haemorrhoids.
Margaret Whitmore was reborn.
Ideally, of course, full transformation takes timesculpting the body, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. The not-doctor mumbled something about a month or two, but time was a luxury Margaret didnt have. She was determined to greet her birthday as a princess, not a sad, pink beefsteak tomato.
And as we all know, any method can be an *express* method if youre desperate enough.
The next 24 hours were a whirlwind of chaos. The newborn princess inside her wanted *everything*, *now*. She was relentless, devouring the old Margaret in hours.
The princess googled beauty standards and trends. The results? False lashes, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts with *Gucci* scrawled across them, and a crop top that read *Bad Girl Free Tonight* with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue (probably trendy, Margaret reasoned).
She also crammed in micro-courses: *Sultry Makeup in 60 Minutes,* *Pole Dancing for Beginners,* and *Deep Throat Mastery* (a free bonus with the makeup tutorial).
The princess decreed that Margaret must now answer to *Trixie* andmost importantly*not chicken out*. She promised that by morning, Margaret would wake up beside a young, wealthy gym enthusiast after a night of passion. There was also something about travel, shopping, and *real* Gucci (not the dog). Margaretor what was left of herbarely understood half of it. She weakly protested about love for Peter, her daughter, and the dignity befitting an educator, but the princess just laughed, showcasing her newly mastered deep throat technique.
With one last squeak, Margaret dissolved entirely into her new alter ego.
Then came the pre-bar prep: contouring her face, squeezing into the shorts, practicing walking in heels. Mid-struggle, 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 grievancesjust as Not-Doctor Twaddle advised. Strangely, it didnt feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, a *glorious* Trixie wobbled into the local pub, aptly named *The Pub*, ready for adventureand debauchery in particular.
*The Pub* didnt stand a chance. One cocktail (a suspiciously named *B-52*) later, and the place surrendered.
Thats the last thing Trixie remembered before waking up the next morning. Her head throbbed. So did her legs. Oddly, the hangover had revived the *original* Margaret, who now peeked out from under the covers.
She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut.
Hallucinations. *Surely* that wasnt her former student, the notorious slacker Kevin Briggs, standing in her bedroom doorway in just his boxers?
*God, of all the things to hallucinate* she muttered.
*Morning, Miss Whitmore! Not a hallucination. Also, Vince Patel and Dave Simmons are asleep on the sofa. We brought you home last night and stayed in case you needed anything. Fancy some pickle juice?*
Margaret groaned and patted herself down under the covers, dreading the answer to *Did I do something unspeakable with my ex-students?*
Shorts: on. Top: on. Underwear: intact. Bra: missing.
Kevin interrupted her panic. *Dont worrywe left you exactly as you were. If youre good, well head off. Call if you need anything, yeah?*
Relief washed over her. No statutory nightmares today.
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
*Hello?* she croaked.
*Miss Whitmore? Its JakeJake Carter. You taught me? Uh, you left your passport at my pub last night. And, erm your bra. I can drop them off latergot plumbers coming soon.*
*Jake! Of course I remember you! Oh, youre a love. And you own a pub now! So proud.*
*Well, about that You kinda broke the bar last night. Dancing on it. And the plumbing? You tried using a pipe as a pole.*
At this, the princess inside Margaret *scrambled* back to her hiding place. Her haemorrhoids shrieked. Her heart ached. Reverse childbirth was no picnic.
*Jake, loveIll pay for everything!*
*Nah, dont worry! You were my favourite teacher. I was in France recently, telling my mates all the stuff you taught us. They thought I was a tour guide! Id never even been beforejust remembered your lessons. Anyway, Im getting a steel bar installed. Dance all you like. Maybe a proper pole, just for you.*
The call ended. The phone rang again.
Her daughter, apologising. *Mum, guess what? You might be a grandma soon. If its a girl, were naming her after you.*
Margaret cried happy tears and told her to kiss the night-owl husband.
Another call. Peter, her beloved idiot, announcing hed be home that eveninghitching a ride with a lorry mate. *Oh, and Im buying you a fur coat. A beauty like you deserves one.*
More tears. *I dont need a coat. I just need you.*
After a shower and a giant mug of tea, Margaret sat on the sofa, reflecting.
She had a *wonderful* life. Exactly the one she wanted. A loving husband. A brilliant daughter and son-in-law. Students who, against all odds, remembered her fondly.
She laughed. She cried. She realised she *liked* her unglamorous, ordinary existenceher jars of homemade jam, her routines, *herself*.
Then the chubby little dogGucciclambered onto her lap, demanding affection.
Margaret stroked its head. *Listen, love, no offence, but Gucci doesnt suit you. Youre no more a Gucci than Im a Trixie. How about Thames? Ever heard of the Thames? Largest river entirely in England, you know. Vital to trade, history*
The pugnow Thamessnorted happily. The name didnt matter. Only the scratches.
And deep inside Margaret, the princess curled up in her dark little cornerfor good this time, where she couldnt ruin anything.
