**Diary Entry 18th March**
The morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. Still lying in bed, eyes shut, she muttered to herselfless a conversation, more a grim acknowledgment of her predicament.
*Fifty tomorrow. Half a century. And what have I got to show for it? I was a good student, married young, never strayed. Raised a decent daughter who also married too soon. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographydrilling children about places Ill never see. Unless, by some miracle, the Thames floods my terrace and deposits the Tower of London on my doorstep. Fat chance. Even if it did, the river would be clogged with rubbish by noon, and the Tower covered in graffiti. Ive three commendation certificates from the headmaster and a flare-up of haemorrhoids. Most of my pupils despise me and my subject. Why should they care about the Nile or the Andes? To them, geographys as useful as a chocolate teapot. And theyre not shy about saying so.*
*Ive that sort of beauty no one mentions outright. The kind where people say, Shes got a lovely soul or Such a good homemaker. A rosy tomato, bronzed in summer. Hair the colour ofwell, no poetic comparison. Just grey. And my husband? Bloody fool. Peters up in Newcastle visiting his mother (God knows whyits as grim as our end of Cornwall, just with worse weather). He gorged on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. Literally. Next ones not till Sunday. Meanwhile, my daughter and her husband are swanning about in Japan because, Mum, you dont celebrate birthdays anyway, and the flights were cheap. So here I am, alone on the big day. Husbands an idiot, daughters besotted with her freeloading berk, and no one gives a toss about me unless theyre hungry or begging for a better grade.*
With these cheery thoughts, Margaret shoved her feet into fluffy slippers and shuffled to the kitchen, trailed by a portly pug named Pradaher daughters idea of a gift. The only Prada shed ever own.
While the kettle boiled, she scrolled through social media. The first post? An ad: *Today only! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. UK exclusive! Hosted by self-help guru Victor Holloway (no medical degree). Learn to love yourself, dismiss the haters! (Results not guaranteed.) Watch live as attendees birth their princess-selves on camera! Starts in 30 minutes.*
*This is it. My shot at fixing this dreary life. Nothing better to do.* She signed up, diving headfirst into the absurdity.
No idea what unfolded in that webinar (we didnt pay for it, after all), but when Dr. Holloway signed off with, *You deserve rebirth!* Margaret looked transformed. Something primal had been yanked out of her, possibly via the haemorrhoid route.
Rebirth.
Ideally, shed have months to refine her new royal demeanourlose weight, take up Pilates, demand respect. But the webinar promised instant results, and her birthday waited for no one.
The next 24 hours were chaos.
Her inner princess was *ravenous*. By afternoon, shed devoured Margarets old self. She Googled influencers, booked lash extensions, acrylic nails, and bought stilettos, denim shorts labelled Prada (ironic), and a crop top reading *Bad Babe on the Prowl* with a tacky lip-and-tongue decal. The tongue looked faintly cyanotic, but surely that was fashion.
Crash courses followed: *Smoky Eyes in 10 Minutes,* *Pole Dancing for Beginners,* and *Advanced Flirting* (free with the makeup tutorial). The princess decreed shed now answer to Trixie and stop dithering. By dawn, shed be in bed with a fit millionaire, and life would begin anew. Travel! Shopping! *Real* Prada!
Margaret whimpered about Peter, her daughter, professional dignitybut Trixie cackled, throat vibrating like a didgeridoo.
Then: prepping for the pub. Contorting into the shorts, stomping about in heels. Between YouTube tutorials, Peter, her mother-in-law, and her daughter rang to wish her happy birthday. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. Trixie? She unleashed decades of pent-up rage. It didnt feel better. Maybe the relief came later.
At 11 p.m., *Trixie*, resplendent in her tragic ensemble, wobbled into *The Kings Arms*. One *Zombie Cocktail* later, the pub surrendered. Her last memory before blacking out.
—
**Morning.**
Head throbbing. Legs? Also agony. Hangover-Margaret was far more coherent than Princess-Trixie. She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut.
*Hallucinating. Must be.*
Because standing in her bedroom doorway, in nothing but boxers, was her former studentchronic truant Liam Cooper.
Christ, Ive finally lost it, she croaked.
Mornin, Miss! Not a hallucination. Jake and Connor are kipped on your sofa. We dragged you home from the pub. Fancy a fry-up?
Margaret groaned, patting herself down. Shorts? On. Top? On. Bra? Gone.
*Oh God. Did I?*
Dont panic, Liam said. We plonked you in bed as-is. Just shout if you need owt.
Relief. No statutory horrors.
Then her phone rang. Unknown number.
Y-yes? she rasped.
Miss? Its Tom. Tom Bailey. From Year 11? You left your passport at my pub. And, erm your bra. I can drop em off laterbuilders are in.
Tom! Lovely boy! You own a pub now?
Well, *did*. You, erm danced on the bar. Snapped a pipe trying to pole dance. But dont worry! You were my favourite teacher. Last month, in Paris, I told my mates all your geography facts. They thought I was a tour guide! Cheers, Miss.
She wept.
Next call: her daughter. Apologies. A grandchild on the way*If its a girl, were naming her after you.*
More tears.
Then Peter: *Home tonight, love. Hitching a ride with a lorry mate. Oh, and Im buying you a proper fur coat. Youre too gorgeous not to have one.*
*I dont need a coat,* she sobbed. *I just need you.*
—
Showered, tea in hand, Margaret sat on the sofa, reflecting.
She had a *good* life. A loving husband. A daughter who cared. Students who remembered her fondly. She liked her quiet routines, her jars of homemade jam. She didnt *want* to be Trixie.
Prada (the pug) clambered onto her lap.
Actually, Margaret mused, scratching the dogs ears, lets rename you. *Prada* doesnt suit. How about *Severn*? Majestic river. Vital to Britains history. Did you know its the longest in the UK?
The pug grunted, content. Names didnt matteronly the scratches.
Deep inside, the princess whimpered and retreated to whatever dark corner shed crawled from.
**Lesson learned:** Happiness isnt found in reinvention. Its in recognising what you already haveeven if its a knackered old pug and a husband who overdoes pears.
