I don't have a lot of illusions about myself, or at least I don't think I do, but I've always had a mental picture of myself as I'd like to be, drifting about my immaculate garden, dead heading my roses into one of those rather swish trugs. My garden, most of the time is nowhere near immaculate, but it did recently reach a stage when it wasn't that bad at all, and so I got with the illusion, and drifted about, dead heading. I then wandered in and mentioned to my husband that I had been pottering about in what I thought was quite a lady of the manor way, dead heading my roses.
He looked up from the cricket and remarked that ladies of the manor generally did not do their dead heading into the same scabrous, muck-encrusted skip they used to use for pooh-picking but never got round to cleaning out. I also gathered, as he looked me up and down, that ladies of the manor did not do their drifting in pilates trousers that have seen better days and t shirt ditto, but darn it, I'm right out of Laura Ashley flowery skirts.