Pleases and poached eggs

It's Saturday again. After a luxurious lie-in, Stephen joined us at eleven o'clock. He wanted poached eggs. I poached eggs. This set the children clamouring for lunch (fair enough, they got me up at six).
Eggs, mummy, eggs.
Eggs what?
Eggs like Daddy.
Eggs like Daddy what?
Stephen looks up from the paper and pours the last of the orange juice into his glass. 'Mine were poached,' he says helpfully.
I poach more eggs. I make toast. Stephen begins three separate sentences with, 'While you're there, Clementine,' and reinforces his newspaper barricade with coffee, a pen for the crossword and the fruit bowl. The children spread eggs and yoghurt over the table cloth. While I'm there, Clementine, I fetch a cloth.
'Aren't you having any breakfast, Clementine?' Stephen asks.
It's all I can do to stop myself telling him that it doesn't look like it.