**Diary Entry 30th April**
This morning, the day before my fiftieth birthday, I woke up in a foul mood. Given the recent events of my life, no one could blame me for lacking cheer. Lying there with my eyes shut, I muttered to myselfthough it was less a conversation and more a grim acknowledgment of my situation.
*”Fifty tomorrow. Thats half a century. And what do I have to show for it? I did well 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, of course, some freak hurricane hurls the Atlantic and the Great Wall of China onto my doorstep. But then again, the ocean would be ruined by litter in a day, and the Wall would be covered in graffiti. Ive got three certificates from the council and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my students despise me and my subject. What do they need geography for? Whats the point? To them, Im just wasting their youth babbling about places theyll never visit. A geography teacherutterly useless, and they dont bother hiding it. Im pretty, in that quiet, unspoken way. If a woman has this sort of beauty, people just call her kind and a good homemaker. Im a pink tomato, or a red one if I catch the sun. My hairs the colour ofwell, no birds wing is this grey. And my husband? Hes stuffed himself with pears. Literally. Peter, my dear other half, visiting his mother (who lives in the middle of nowhere, just like us, but the other end of the countryas if were on one buttock, and shes on the other, with a chasm in between). He gorged on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his trainnot figuratively. The next one isnt for a week. My daughter and son-in-law are off in distant Japan because Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and the trip was practically free. So, Ill be alone on my birthday. 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 passing grade.”*
With these merry thoughts, I dragged myself out of bed, stuffed my feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind me waddled a plump little dog, Gucci, a recent gift from my daughter. The only Gucci Ill ever own.
While the kettle boiled, I checked my social media. The first thing in my feed was an ad: *”Today only! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Hosted by self-proclaimed doctor Victor Swindle. Victor will teach you to love yourself and ignore the worldthough success isnt guaranteed. By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess live on air. Starts in half an hour.”*
*”This is it! This could change my dull, pointless life. And its not like Ive got anything better to do.”* So, I dove headfirst into the fairy-tale world of self-discovery.
I wont pretend to know what happened in that webinarI didnt pay for it. But when it ended, and Doctor Swindle uttered his final, *”You deserve to be reborn,”* the look on my face must have said it all. Id found a princess inside meand dragged her out through the very place my haemorrhoids were protesting.
I was reborn.
Ideally, a full transformation wouldve taken timereshaping my body, educating myself, earning respect, changing habits. The doctor mumbled something about a month or two, but time was a luxury I didnt have. I was determined to greet my birthday as a princess, not a sad, pink beefsteak tomato.
And where theres a will, theres a way.
The next 24 hours were chaos. The newborn princess demanded everything at once. She was relentless, devouring the old me in hours. She Googled celebrities and trends, emerging with eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts (fake Gucci, of course), and a crop top that screamed *”Hot Babe Tonight!”* in glittering letters, complete with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue. *Probably fashionable,* I thought weakly.
She also binge-watched micro-courses: *”Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* and *”Deep Throat Mastery”* (a freebie with the makeup tutorial). She decreed I was now to be called Tootsie and to never back down. She rambled about waking up next to a young, millionaire gym addict, jet-setting, shopping spreesreal Gucci this timebut most of it went over my head.
I tried protesting*What about Peter? My daughter? Professional dignity?*but the princess just cackled, showcasing her newly mastered throat skills. With a final squeak, the old me dissolved entirely.
Then came the bar preparations. Contouring, squeezing into the shorts, practising walking in heels. Peter, my mother-in-law, and my daughter called to wish me happy birthday. The old me wouldve thanked them. Tootsie unleashed years of pent-up rage, just as Doctor Swindle advised. It didnt make me feel better, but maybe the effect was delayed.
At 11 PM, a dazzling Tootsie wobbled into the local pub, *The Kings Arms,* ready for adventureand debauchery, specifically. The place surrendered after one cocktail, a *”Flaming Lamborghini.”* Thats the last thing I remembered before waking up.
My head pounded. My legs ached. The hangover had somehow revived the original me. I opened my eyesthen shut them. Hallucinations. My former student, Ryan Cooper, the class clown and truant, stood in my bedroom doorway in his boxers.
*”God, what a nightmare,”* I croaked.
*”Mornin, Mrs. Whitmore. Not a nightmare. Vinnie and Dave are crashed on your sofa. We carried you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy some pickle juice?”*
I groaned, patting myself under the covers*shorts on, top on, knickers on. No bra.*
*”Dont worry,”* Ryan said, *”we didnt touch you. Just dropped you off. If youre alright, well head out. Call if you need anything.”*
Relief washed over me. No scandal, no tabloid headlines. Then my phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Y-yes?”* I rasped.
*”Mrs. Whitmore? Its DannyDanny Fletcher. You taught me. You, uh left your passport at my pub. And, uh your bra. I can drop them off latergot plumbers coming. The bars a bit damaged.”*
*”Danny! Of course I remember you! Oh, youre such a good lad. You own a pub now? So proud!”*
*”Yeah, well You sort of broke the bar last night. And the plumbing. You tried using a pipe as a stripper pole.”*
At that, the princess scrambled back into the depths shed been dragged from. My haemorrhoids screamed. Reverse birth is no picnic.
*”Danny! Im so sorry! Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Nah, dont worry. You were my favourite teacher. I was in France last monthtold everyone what you taught us. They asked if I was a tour guide! All thanks to you. Ill reinforce the bar. Dance on it anytime!”*
The phone rang againmy daughter, apologising. *”Mum, I think youre going to be a grandma. If its a girl, Jason wants to name her after you.”*
I cried, telling her to kiss Jason (the night owl with the free holiday).
Then Peter called. *”Ill be home tonighthitching a ride with a mate. Love you. Fancy a fur coat? A stunner like you needs one.”*
More tears. *”I dont need fur. I just need you.”*
I showered, gulped tea, and collapsed on the sofa. My life was perfect. Exactly as I wanted it. A loving husband, a wonderful daughter, amazing students. I liked my unglamorous, ordinary existencemy jars of homemade jam, my routines.
Gucci clambered onto my lap. I stroked her. *”Listen, love Gucci doesnt suit you. Youre no more a Gucci than Im a Tootsie. How about Thames? Ever heard of the Thames? Mighty river. Vital to British history”*
Thames snorted (pugs do that) and nuzzled my hand. She didnt care about namesjust the scratches.
Deep inside, the princess curled up in her dark corner. Shed stay there. Life was better without her.
**Lesson learned:** Happiness isnt about reinvention. Its about recognising what you already haveand loving it.
