MacHeelers

Morning at the chateau.
Ireland's greatest living poet stumbles blearily into the kitchen.
The lady known as Lil is posited comfortably at the table imbibing orange juice.
"You'd better get a new tooth brush," sez she by way of greeting as her favourite son fumbles for the kettle.
This conversational gambit is odd even by our usual surrealistic standards.
I turn with some surprise.
"Why do I need to get a new toothbrush?" I enquire suspiciously.
"Because I went to use your old one yesterday and it's worn out," answereth she.
The noble Heelers plonks down on a chair.
"What's wrong with you," enquires the Mammy.
I allow my handsome preraphaelite features to sink into my tapered poet's hands.
"I have supped full with Hodders," I murmur, "but she's not in the halfpenny place with you."