**Diary Entry: A Birthday to Remember**
This morning, the day before my fiftieth birthday, I woke up in a foul mood. Given everything thats happened lately, no one could blame me for feeling bleak. I lay there with my eyes closed, talkingno, *admitting*to myself that I was stuck in a proper mess. *Fifty years old tomorrow. Thats half a century! And what do I have to show for it?* I did everything rightworked hard, married young, stayed faithful, raised a good daughter who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geography to kids wholl never care about the places I describe. Unless some freak hurricane drops the Thames and the White Cliffs of Dover on my doorstepthough honestly, even then, theyd just graffiti the cliffs and pollute the river. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my students despise me. *Why do they need geography? Why do they need me?* To them, Im just wasting their youth.
Ive got that kind of beauty no one talks about. The sort where people say, *Shes kind, keeps a lovely home.* Im a tomatopink, or red if I catch some sun. My hairs the colour of well, nothing poetic. Just grey. And my husband? Hes gone and stuffed himself with pears. Literally. My dear Peter, visiting his mum up in Scotland (another backwater, just at the opposite end of the country), ate too many underripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. *Literally* missed it. The next one isnt for a week. Meanwhile, my daughter and her husband are off in Japan because, *”Mum, you dont celebrate anyway, and the trip was practically free!”* So here I am, facing my birthday alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughter cares more about free holidays than her own mother. No one loves me. No one respects me. To them, Im just good for meals and handing out grades.
With these cheery thoughts, I dragged myself out of bed, shoved my feet into fluffy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind me waddled Gucci, the little sausage dog my daughter gave methe only Gucci Ill ever own.
While the kettle boiled, I scrolled through social media. The first thing I saw was an ad: *”Only today! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Hosted by not-quite-a-doctor Victor Shyster. Victor will teach you to love yourself and not give a damn about anyone else. Results not guaranteed. 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. What else have I got to do?* I signed up and plunged into the magical world of self-reinvention.
I wont bore you with the detailsneither of us paid for the full experiencebut by the end, when “Dr.” Shyster crooned, *”You deserve to be reborn,”* the look on my face said it all. Id found my inner princessand yanked her out through the one place already sore from my haemorrhoids.
Natalie Johnson was *reborn.*
Ideally, transformation takes timeexercise, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. The “doctor” mumbled something about a month or two, but I didnt have that. My birthday was *tomorrow,* and I refused to greet it as a sad, overripe tomato.
Where theres a will, theres a way. The next 24 hours were chaos.
My new princess was *demanding.* She gobbled up old Natalie in hours. She Googled glamour shots and trends, then ordered: lash extensions, acrylic nails, stilettos, denim shorts with *”Gucci”* scrawled across the back, and a top that screamed *”Daring Babe: Free Tonight!”* in glittering letters. The appliqué lips looked like theyd been chewing biro ink, but *”Thats fashion, I guess.”*
She also binge-watched micro-courses: *”Sultry Makeup,”* *”Pole Dancing in 60 Minutes,”* and *”Deep Throat 101″* (a freebie with the makeup tutorial). She decreed I now answer to *”Trixie”* and *”own it.”* By morning, she promised, Id wake up next to a ripped millionaire after a night of passion. There was chatter about travel, shopping, and *real* Guccinot the dog. I barely understood half of it.
I squeaked protests about loving Peter, my daughter, and professional dignity. The princess just cackled, showcasing her *deep throat* technique. With a final whimper, old Natalie dissolved into her new alter ego.
Then: prepping for the club. Sultry makeup. Squeezing into the shorts. Practicing walking in heels. Between crises, Peter, my mother-in-law, and my daughter called to wish me happy birthday. Old Natalie wouldve thanked them. *Trixie* vomited up years of pent-up ragejust as Dr. Shyster advised. It didnt help. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 p.m., *Trixie the Daring Babe* struttedokay, wobbledinto *”The Pub.”* One cocktail (*”Sex on the Beach”*) later, the pub surrendered. Thats the last thing I remember.
I woke up with a pounding headache and inexplicably sore legs. Hangover Natalie was far louder than Princess Trixie. I opened my eyesthen shut them. *Hallucinating.* My former student, chronic truant *Liam Cooper,* stood in my bedroom doorway. In his pants.
*”God, what a nightmare,”* I groaned.
*”Morning, Mrs. Johnson! Not a nightmare. Jake and Tom are asleep on your sofa. We brought you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy a fry-up?”*
I moaned, patting myself down under the covers. *Had I?* Shorts on. Top on. Knickers on. No bra.
*”We left you fully dressed, swear,”* Liam said. *”Just shout if you need us.”*
Relief flooded me. No scandal. No tabloid headlines.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Hello?”* I croaked.
*”Mrs. Johnson? Its Danny. Danny Harris. Remember me? You left your purseand, erm, *bra*at my pub last night. I can drop them off later. Builders are coming”*
*”Danny! Of course! Youre a love. Running a pub now! So proud!”*
*”Not exactly. You, uh, *danced* on the bar last night. Cracked it. Then tried to use a pipe as a pole. Snapped that too.”*
At those words, Princess Trixie *scrambled* back where she came from. My haemorrhoids screamed. My heart stung. Reverse labour *hurts.*
*”Danny, love, Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Dont be daft! You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Spaintold my mates all *your* stories. They thought I was a tour guide! Cheers to you! Ill reinforce the bar. Dance all you like!”*
The phone rang again. My daughter. Apologies. A grandbaby on the way. *”If its a girl, were naming her after you.”*
I sobbed, telling her to kiss her husband.
Then Peter called. *”Home tonight. Love you. Buying you a fur coata beauty like you deserves one.”*
More tears. *”Dont need a coat. Just you.”*
After a shower and a gallon of tea, I sat on the sofa, reflecting. *I have a wonderful life.* The one I *want.* A loving husband. A brilliant daughter. Kind students.
Gucci clambered onto my lap. I stroked her.
*”You know youre not a Gucci. *Im* not a Trixie. How about *Thames*? Ever heard of her? Longest river in England. Vital to history”*
Thames*much* bettergrunted happily.
Deep inside, the princess curled up in her dark corner. *Stay there.*
Today, Im just Natalie Johnson. And thats enough.
