I was awake earlier than usual today so decided to get straight on with some gardening then send some emails before getting washed and dressed.
Still bleary-eyed when I sat down at the computer, I misplaced my modifiers.
I fear, therefore, that at least one poor soul has been greeted this morning with a message telling them that “I’ve been dead-heading the roses in my pyjamas.”
I’m not going to post a photo of me in my pyjamas, but I hope these pictures help to clarify that the roses are in the garden, not in my nightwear.
Mind you, before I dead-headed the roses, I planted some ornamental gourds in my pyjamas. I wonder if they’ll grow.
5 thoughts on “grammatically modified gardening”
“I’m not going to post a photo of me in my pyjamas […]”
Don’t the many readers who will probably have visited your site for the first time after searching Google for “a photo of me in my pyjamas” deserve some consideration?
Heh. I think you are a little confused. This is DCTN: you should have guessed that the narrator’s pyjamas are a figment of the writer’s imagination!
The famous pyjamas that you insist on continuing to discuss have now become a figment of the reader’s imagination as well as the writer’s. Neither the narrator nor the writer has specified what kind of pyjamas are being worn: one reader might envisage Jean Harlow; another, Eric Morecambe; a third, both. (The third reader would be the one most likely to be a poet.)
For gardening, I would suggest that pyjamas with harem trousers or bloomers – i.e. tight at the ankles – might be wise as they’d stop the bugs encroaching. The voluminous fabric could be a hindrance, though, so perhaps baby dolls would be better as the gardener would probably sense the ants etc before they reached a point too far north. As for fabric, well, nothing too sheer or lacy, particularly for dealing with thorny plants like roses, and preferably something that’s easy to wash; probably a natural fibre, as gardening can be heavy work. So maybe gingham, or even winceyette for those chilly early mornings when the dewed tongues of grass lick at bare toes. (Do you think fluffy bedroom mules are the chosen footwear for pyjama-clad lady gardeners?)