On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Elizabeth Margaret Bennett woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. She lay in bed, eyes still shut, having a one-woman conversationthough it was mostly just stating the obvious fact that life had thrown her into a proper pickle.
“Tomorrow, I turn fifty! Thats half a century! And what do I have to show for it? Top marks in school. Married young. Never once cheated on my husband. Raised a lovely daughter, who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job. Teaching children geographytelling them about places Ive never been and never will. Unless, of course, some freak hurricane drops the Atlantic and Buckingham Palace on my doorstep. But I rather hope it doesnt, because the ocean would be clogged with rubbish within a day, and the palace walls would be covered in graffiti. Ive got three certificates from the local council and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my pupils hate me and my subject. Why do they need geography? Why bother? To them, Im just wasting their youth droning on about places theyll never visit. Geography teacher might as well be a relic of a bygone era, and the kids dont hold back saying so. Im pretty in that special way people never mention. When a woman has *that* kind of beauty, they say shes kind-hearted and a good homemaker. Im a rosy tomatoor a sunburnt one if I linger outside too long. My hairs the colour of, well, nothing poeticjust grey. Oh, and my husbands gone and stuffed himself with pears. No, not metaphorically. *Literally.* My dear Peter, visiting his mum in the arse-end of nowheresame as us, just the opposite side of the country, like were on separate cheeks of Britains backside with a great chasm between usgorged on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Missed being a polite way of saying he was glued to the loo. Next trains not for a week. My daughter and son-in-law are off in distant Japan because, Mum, you dont *really* celebrate, and this holiday was practically free! So, naturally, Ill be ringing in my birthday alone. In short: husbands an idiot, daughters got her head turned by free trips, no one loves or respects me. To them, Im just good for a meal and a passing grade.”
With these decidedly un-merry thoughts, Elizabeth shuffled out of bed, stuffed her feet into fluffy slippers, and scuttled to the kitchen. Behind her waddled a plump little corgi named Burberryrecently gifted by her daughter. It was the only Burberry shed ever own.
While the kettle boiled, she opened her social media. First thing in her feed? An ad: *TODAY ONLY! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Hosted by self-proclaimed life coach Victor McSwindler. Victor will teach you to love yourself and not give a toss about anyone else. (Results not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess LIVE on camera! Starts in 30 minutes.*
This! This is my chance! This could turn my dull, dreary life aroundand its not like Ive got plans! Elizabeth thought, diving headfirst into the mystical world of self-reinvention.
What exactly happened in that webinar? No ideawe didnt pay for it. But by the time Dr. McSwindler signed off with his final You deserve to rebirth yourself, Elizabeth looked like shed indeed yanked out a princessand not a dainty one. More like a pub brawler in a tiara, hauled out through the very spot where her haemorrhoids throbbed.
Elizabeth was reborn.
Ideally, of course, full transformation takes timereshaping your figure, refining your mind, commanding respect, changing habits. McSwindler mumbled something about a month or two, but time was a luxury she didnt have. She *would* greet her birthday as a princess, not a sunburnt tomato.
And where theres a will, theres an express method.
The next 24 hours were a whirlwind of chaos. This new princess was *demanding*. She consumed Elizabeths former self within hours. She googled glamorous women and the latest trends. The result? Eyelash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts with Burberry scrawled across the back, and a crop top declaring *Bad Bitch on the Prowl* with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue (possibly a fashion statement, possibly a cry for help).
Simultaneously, Princess Elizabeth binge-watched micro-courses: *Sultry Makeup in 10 Mins*, *Pole Dancing for Beginners*, and *Advanced Flirting* (free with the makeup tutorial). She decreed that Elizabeth must now answer to *Lizzie* and stop being such a wet blanket. She promised that by morning, Lizzied wake up next to a chiselled millionaire after a night of passion, and life would be glitter and prosecco. There was also something about world travel, shopping sprees, and *actual* Burberrydefinitely not the dog. Most of it went over Original Elizabeths head. She weakly protested about love for Peter, her daughter, and professional dignity, but Princess Lizzie just cackled, showcasing her newly mastered deep-throat laugh.
Original Elizabeth squeaked one last objectionthen vanished entirely.
Next: prepping for the pub. Sultry makeup, wrestling into the shorts, practising strutting in heels. Mid-struggle, Peter, her mother-in-law, and daughter called to wish her happy birthday. Original Elizabeth wouldve thanked them. *Lizzie*, however, unleashed years of pent-up grievancesjust as McSwindler advised. It didnt feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 p.m., a dazzling *Lizzie* wobbled into the local pub, aptly named *The Pub*, ready for adventureand possibly regrettable decisions.
*The Pub* never stood a chance. One cocktail (something called a *Flaming Lamborghini*) later, and it surrendered to Lizzies reign.
Thats the last thing she remembered before waking up.
Her head pounded. So did her legs. Hangovers, it seemed, were kryptonite to princessesOriginal Elizabeth was back in charge.
She opened her eyes. Then shut them.
Hallucinating. Obviously. Because standing in her bedroom doorway was her former studentchronic truant and class clown, Oliver Thompson*in his pants.*
Good Lord, even my *delirium* is humiliating, she groaned aloud.
Mornin, Miss Bennett! Not a hallucination. Vinnie Patel and Dave Carter are crashed on your sofa. We dragged you home from the pub last night and stayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a bacon sarnie? said the hallucination, sounding suspiciously like Oliver.
Elizabeth moaned, patting herself down under the covers, dreading the worst. Shorts? On. Top? On. Bra? *Gone.*
Oliver interrupted her panic. Dont worrywe left you fully dressed. Well, mostly. If youre alright, well head off. Just ring if you need anything.
Relief flooded her. No scandalous tabloid headlines today.
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
Y-yes? she croaked.
Miss Bennett? Its JimmyJimmy OConnor, remember? From year eleven? Uh, you left your passport at my pub last night. And, erm your bra. Want me to drop em round? Cant nowplumbers coming. Pipes busted.
Jimmy! Of course I remember! Oh, youre a *love*running a pub now! she rasped.
Yeah, about that You sort of *broke* the bar counter last night. And the plumbing. When you tried to pole dance on a pipe.
At this, Princess Lizzie scrambled back into the abyss shed crawled from, dragging Elizabeths dignity with her. Haemorrhoids shrieked. Heartburn flared. Reverse princess-birth was *not* painless.
Jimmy! Im *so* sorry! Ill pay for
Nah, dont! You were my favourite teacher! Last month in Barcelona, I told my mates all the stuff you taught usthey thought I was a proper tour guide! Never even been before! Cheers to you! Anyway, Im getting a steel counter fitted now. Dance on it all you like!
The phone rang again. Her daughter, apologising, announcing a grandbaby on the way*If its a girl, were naming her Elizabeth!*
Elizabeth wept, telling her to kiss the cheeky bugger of a son-in-law.
Another call. Peter, saying hed be home tonighthitching a ride with a lorry mate. *Love you, darling. Fancy a fur coat? A beauty like you ought to have one.*
She sobbed that she only wanted *him.*
Later, showered and cradling a giant cuppa, Elizabeth sat on the sofa, reflecting. She had a *wonderful* life. Exactly the one she wanted. A loving husband, a brilliant daughter, wonderful students. She *liked* her unglamorous, ordinary worldher jars of homemade jam, her quiet routines.
Sometimes she laughed. Sometimes she cried.
The corgi clambered onto her lap, nuzzling her hand.
Listen, Elizabeth murmured, scratching its ears, how about we rename you? Burberry doesnt suit you. Youre no more a Burberry than Im a Lizzie. Lets call you Thames. Majestic. Historic. Did you know its the longest river entirely in England? Over 200 miles, and
Thames snorted (corgis do that) and wagged. The name didnt matteronly the scratches.
Somewhere deep inside Elizabeth, the princess curled up, defeated. Shed stay therequietly, foreverwhere she couldnt ruin a perfectly good life.
