The morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Thompson woke up in a foul mood. And frankly, given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer.
She lay there, eyes shut, muttering to herselfor rather, stating the obvious: that she was, quite literally, up the creek without a paddle. «Tomorrow I turn fifty! Thats half a century! And what do I have to show for it? I was a good student. Married young. Never cheated on my husband. Raised a lovely daughter, who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling kids about places Ive never been and never will. Unless, of course, a hurricane drops the Thames and the Great Wall of China in my back garden. But lets hope not, because the Thames would be clogged with rubbish by sundown, and the Wall would be covered in graffiti. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my students despise meand the subject. Why do they need geography? Why? To them, Im just wasting their youth banging on about places theyll never visit. A geography teacher is about as useful as a chocolate teapot, and the kids dont bother hiding it.
Im prettyin that understated, shes got a lovely personality sort of way. A rosy tomato, really. If I tan, I turn red. My hair? The colour of a pigeons wingwhich is just a fancy way of saying grey. Oh, and my husband, bless him, has overdone it on pears. Not metaphorically. Literally. My dear Peter, visiting his mum up in bloody Newcastle (because apparently, we must live at opposite ends of the country, like two bookends of misery), gorged himself on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. And I do mean missedno metaphors here. Next ones not for a week.
Our daughter and her husband? Off gallivanting in Japan because, Mum, you dont even celebrate birthdays, and the holiday was practically free! So, guess whos spending her fiftieth alone? My husbands an idiot, my daughters prioritised a free holiday over her own mother, no one loves or respects me, and all anyone wants from me is food or a better grade.»
With these decidedly dreary thoughts, Margaret hauled herself out of bed, stuffed her feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Hot on her heels waddled a portly little pug named Guccithe only Gucci shed ever own, a recent gift from her daughter.
As the kettle boiled, Margaret scrolled through social media. The first post? An ad: «ONLY TODAY! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess! First time in the UK! Hosted by self-proclaimed life coach (not an actual doctor) Victor Shambles. Victor will teach you to love yourself and stop caring what others thinkthough he makes no promises about success. By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess LIVE on camera! Starts in 30 minutes.»
«This is it! My chance to turn my dull, worthless life around! And its not like Ive got anything better to do,» Margaret thought, diving headfirst into the magical world of self-reinvention.
Now, we didnt pay for the webinar, so weve no idea what went down. But by the time Dr Shambles declared, «You are worthy of rebirth!»Margaret looked like shed yanked out a princess-sized version of herself from somewhere decidedly uncomfortable.
She was reborn.
Ideally, of course, a full transformation would take timeworking on her figure, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. The not-doctor mumbled something about a month or two, but Margaret didnt have that. She was determined to greet her fiftieth as a princess, not a rosy, deflated tomato.
And as we all know, any method can be sped upif youre desperate enough.
The next 24 hours were a whirlwind of chaos. The newborn princess demanded everything NOW. She devoured Margarets former self whole, Googling glamour shots and the latest trends. The results? Eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stiletto heels, denim shorts with GUCCI slapped across the backside, and a crop top that declared WILD BABE OUT FOR FUN! in glitter, complete with a giant pair of red lips sticking out a disturbingly neon-blue tongue.
«Probably fashionable,» Margaret reasoned weakly.
Meanwhile, the princess binge-watched micro-courses: Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes, Pole Dancing for Beginners, and Deep Throat Mastery (free with the makeup tutorial). She decreed that Margaret must now answer only to Trixie and never, ever chicken out.
«By tomorrow,» the princess vowed, «youll wake up next to a ripped millionaire after a night of passion, and everything will change!» She babbled something about holidays, shopping, and Gucci (definitely not the pug), but Margaretwhat was left of herbarely understood. She tried protesting about love for Peter, her daughter, and professional dignity, but the princess just cackled, demonstrating her newly acquired deep throat technique.
With one last squeak of resistance, Margaret dissolved entirely into her new alter ego.
Then came the pre-club prep: contouring, squeezing into the shorts, practising walking in heels. Mid-stride, Peter, her mother-in-law, and daughter all called to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them politely. Trixie, however, unleashed years of pent-up grievancesjust as Dr Shambles had instructed. Strangely, it didnt make her feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, a vision in denim and glitter wobbled into the local pub, aptly named The Pub. Trixie was ready for adventureand, more specifically, debauchery.
The Pub didnt stand a chance. One B52 cocktail in, and it surrendered entirely.
Thats the last thing Trixie remembered before waking up the next morning with a pounding headache andoddlysore legs.
The hangover had, inexplicably, revived Margarets original personality. She opened her eyes, then slammed them shut.
She was hallucinating.
Standing in her bedroom doorway was her former studentchronic truant and class clownKevin Briggs. In his pants.
«Good Lord, I must be dreaming,» she croaked.
«Morning, Miss Thompson! Not a dream. Vinnie Carter and Dave Simmons are crashed on the sofa. We carried you home last night and stayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a bacon butty?»
Margaret groaned and frantically patted herself down under the covers. Had she? No. Shorts on. Top on. Underwear intact. No bra.
«Dont worry, Miss,» Kevin added. «We put you to bed exactly as you were. If youre alright, well head off. Just ring if you need owt.»
Relief flooded her. No scandalous headlines.
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
«Hello?» she rasped.
«Miss Thompson? Its JimmyJimmy Cooper. Remember? From Year 10? Erm… you left your passport at my pub last night. And, uh… your bra. I can drop em off laterbuilders are coming to fix the bar.»
«Jimmy! Of course I remember! Oh, youre a gem. Running a pub now? So proud!»
«Not just running it. You, uh… sort of broke the bar. And the plumbing. Tried using a pipe as a pole. Snapped right off.»
At this, the princess inside Margaret scrambled to crawl back into whatever dark corner shed been dragged from. Her haemorrhoids screamed. Her heart ached. Reverse birth was no picnic.
«Jimmy, love, Im so sorry! Ill pay for everything!»
«Nah, dont worry. You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Spaintold my mates all the stuff you taught us. They thought I was a tour guide! All thanks to you. Ill reinforce the bar. Dance on it all you like. Might even install a proper pole.»
Her daughter called next, full of apologies. «Mum, guess what? Youre going to be a grandma! And if its a girl, were naming her after you.»
Margaret wept with joy and told her to kiss the babys father.
Then Peter rang. «Be home tonight, love. Hitching a ride with a lorry mate. Oh, and Im buying you a fur coat. A beauty like you deserves one.»
She sobbed into the phone, insisting she only wanted him.
Later, showered and sipping tea, Margaret sat on the sofa, reflecting. She had a wonderful lifeexactly the one she wanted. A loving husband. A brilliant daughter. Fantastic students. She treasured her ordinary, unglamorous existenceeven the jars of homegrown tomatoes.
The pug, Gucci, clambered onto her lap.
«Listen,» Margaret murmured, scratching its ears, «how about we rename you? Youre no Gucci. Youre more of a… Thames. Ever heard of the Thames? Longest river in England. Vital to trade, history…»
The pug snortedcontent.
And deep inside, the princess curled up in her dark little nook, never to trouble Margaret again.
