**Diary Entry 30th September**
The morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. She lay with her eyes closed, muttering to herselfor rather, stating the obvious fact that life had dealt her a rotten hand.
*Fifty tomorrow. Bloody hell. And what have I got to show for it? I did well in school. Married young. Never cheated on my husband. Raised a decent daughter who also married too soon. Eighteen years at the same jobteaching geography to kids about places Ive never seen and never will. Unless, by some miracle, the Atlantic crashes into my garden and deposits the Great Wall of China beside the bins. But then, the ocean would stink within a day, and the wall would be 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? To them, Im wasting their youth yapping about places theyll never visit. Just another useless part of the curriculum.
Ive got that sort of beauty nobody talks about. The kind where people say, Oh, shes got a kind face, or She keeps a lovely home. Im a tomatopink most days, red if I catch the sun. My hair? The colour of seagull wingswhich is to say, grey. And my husband? Well, hes gone and made a right fool of himself. Literally. Peter, visiting his mum up in bloody Inverness (another godforsaken corner of the country), stuffed himself with unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Not a metaphorhe actually shat himself. Next trains not for a week.
Our daughter and her husband are off in Japan because, Mum, you dont even celebrate birthdays, and this was a free holiday! So, guess whos spending her fiftieth alone? A daft husband, a daughter who values a cheap holiday over her own mother. Nobody loves me. Nobody respects me. They just want food and decent marks.*
With these cheery thoughts, Margaret hauled herself out of bed, shoved her feet into worn-out slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her, waddling in sync, was a fat little corgi named Posha recent gift from her daughter. The only bit of Posh shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she scrolled through social media. The first post? An ad: *ONLY TODAY! Webinar: Dig Deep & Find Your Inner Princess! First time in the UK! Hosted by Dr Victor Twaddle (not actually a doctor). Victor will teach you to love yourself and tell the world to sod off. Success not guaranteed. By the end, every woman will birth her inner princess LIVE on air. Starts in 30 minutes.*
*This! This is my chance!* Margaret thought. *Might as well. Nothing better to do.* And so, she dived headfirst into the magical world of self-reinvention.
We dont know exactly what happened (we didnt pay for the webinar), but when it ended and Dr Twaddle uttered his final *You deserve a fresh start,* Margaret looked different. Like shed yanked out a princessnot a dainty one, eitherstraight through the part of her where the haemorrhoids lived.
She was reborn.
Ideally, transformation takes timeworking on your figure, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. Dr Twaddle mumbled something about a month or two, but Margaret didnt have that. She was determined to greet her birthday as a princess, not a sad, pink tomato.
And where theres a will, theres an express method.
The next 24 hours were chaos. The newborn princess demanded *everything* at once. She devoured Margarets old self within hours. Googling glamorous women, latest trendsthe works. By evening, shed sprouted fake lashes, acrylic nails, and squeezed into denim shorts labelled Posh, a tank top that read *Bold & Single Tonight,* with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue (probably fashionable, Margaret reasoned).
She also took micro-courses: *Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes,* *Pole Dancing for Beginners,* and *Advanced Flirting* (free with the makeup tutorial). The princess decreed that Margaret must now go by *Trixie* and *own it.*
*By tomorrow, youll wake up next to a ripped millionaire after a night of passion,* Trixie declared. *Then its shopping sprees, holidays, and the real Poshnot that dog.*
Margaret weakly protested about love for Peter, her daughter, professional dignitybut Trixie just cackled, showcasing her newfound flirtation skills. With a final squeak, Margaret dissolved into her new alter ego.
Then came the pre-bar frenzy: contouring, wrestling into shorts, practising walking in heels. Peter, her mother-in-law, and daughter called to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. Trixie, however, unleashed years of pent-up rage (as Dr Twaddle advised). It didnt feel bettermaybe the relief came later.
At 11 PM, *Trixie the Daring* strutted into *The Crown Pub*, ready for debauchery. One cocktail (*The Windsor*) later, the pub surrendered. Thats the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a splitting headache and sore legs. Hangover-Margaret was far more coherent than Trixie. She opened her eyesthen shut them.
*Hallucinating. Definitely.* Her former student, the class clown James Thompson, stood in her doorway in his boxers.
*Christ, Ive lost it,* she croaked.
*Mornin, Miss! Not a hallucination. Tom and Dave are asleep on the sofa. We dragged you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy some pickle juice?*
Margaret groaned, patting herself down under the coversstill dressed, thank God.
James scratched his head. *We just plonked you in bed as-is. If youre alright, well head off. Call if you need owt.*
Relief washed over her. Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
*Y-yes?* she rasped.
*Miss? Its DannyDanny Cooper. From school? You left your passport at my pub. And, er your bra. I can drop em off latergot builders coming.*
*Danny! Lovely boy! You own a pub now? So proud!*
*Aye, well about that. You, erm, broke the bar last night. Dancing on it. Then tried using a pipe as a pole. Snapped it.*
Trixie retreated fastback where she came from. Margarets heart ached. *Danny, love, Ill pay for everything!*
*Nah, dont worry! You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Francetold my mates all your stories. They thought I was a tour guide! Ill fix the bar proper, maybe install a pole for you.* He hung up.
Her daughter called next, apologising, announcing a grandchild on the way*If its a girl, well name her after you!* Margaret wept, told her to kiss the father (even if he was a twit).
Then Peter rang. *Be home tonighthitching a ride with a lorry mate. Love you. Fancy a fur coat? A beauty like you deserves one.*
Margaret sobbed. *Dont need a coat. Just you.*
After a shower and strong tea, she sat on the sofa, realising: *She had a wonderful life.* A loving husband, a good daughter, brilliant students. She liked her ordinary, unglamorous worldher tinned tomatoes, her routines.
Posh the corgi clambered onto her lap. Margaret stroked her. *Listen, love, youre not a Posh. More of a *Thames.* Ever heard of the Thames? Mighty river. Vital to Englands history*
Thames snorted (corgis do that) and nuzzled her.
Deep inside Margaret, the princess curled upfor good this time.
**Lesson:** Sometimes, the life youve got is the one you truly want. And no amount of forced reinvention beats a loyal corgi and a decent cuppa.
