domestic nightmares human tornado

okay so we have just experienced a little tornado on the domestic front.
it has happened before and I always am left feeling, wondering whether I could have prevented it.
whether he's a c u next Tuesday or I am?

so to recap.
I am preparing dinner in our small and more than fairly claustrophobic kitchen in the heart of new cross south east London.
I have cobbled together  some jacket potatoes; a sadly rather runny cheddar and mozzarella  sauce over spaghetti with crispy bacon and some green beans. hey its the recession. fridge is fairly bare.
me and my kids have put some homemade rice pudding in the oven (all positive and fairly homely so far!).

the kitchen is as I said, is fairly cluttered; the table is clearish and ready to eat.
there are four chairs plus high-chair needing to fit in a fairly small space. but it is doable. I do it.

in the doorway is a hoover- I must have left it there after a groundhog moment of hoovering up general shit I hoover up every day and yes at some point i have abandoned it to probably attend to a child or baby or laundry or perhaps something else.
but there it is, a tangled mess of hoover in the doorway adding to the general cluttered atmosphere of the eating area.

I am at the stove finishing off. the table and chairs are in front of me. the hoover, on the other side nearest significant other, is impinging onto the small space we have- in an attempt to be civilised and eat together at a sodding table.

so I, maybe stupidly, ask my dearest beloved to please put it away.

he is sat  in his place with a cross word puzzle. fairly irritating of course to be asked to perform a task that some will deem unnecessary. but to me, seems good in the most basic of ways and will surely contribute to a feeling of space and less a feeling that I am cooking -and all of the rest of it, so that we can, like slobs sitting in shit , eat more shit that I have prepared, to shit later.not nice imagery. but shit clutter puts me in that way of thinking.  it is just shit, and the hoover lying in the doorway for all and asunder to trip on seems to undermine my efforts- or lets even say- our efforts, to keep up some basic standards.
 child 2 aged 4 can't move it and child 1, 13 yrs is upstairs. is it so much to ask? 'yes you Sheila' shout a chorus of bigots.

he wiggles it a bit to one side.
and I repeat 'please move it it's in the way' see above as to my reasons for feeling this way.
think small space,  clutter;  narrow walls closing in;  me cooking,   baby crying;  hoover in doorway tangled and visually displeasing when combined with the above.       people hungry. waiting to eat. me standing.      rice pudding in oven ,     ideals. 
I repeat hoover in doorway tangled and visually displeasing when combined with the above
(and weirdly, until the tornado swept it didn't even seem that bad,just like an abandoned hoover with its entrails spreading through a doorway and encroaching on what little space we have).

after some negative banter- him insisting it is fine where it is, and me insisting otherwise, he grabs the hoover.
I move two chairs out of the way so as he can lift it through and perhaps place it under the stairs where it sometimes lives when I actually put it away- being the prime hoverer among other things.
as he moves past the table clutching the hoover which now becomes a threatening plastic monster, he shakes it -the table- as if to demonstrate what little room there is and how impossible it is to get past. he manages to do this with his free hand as he roams past dementedly carrying the god forsaken but much prized hoover.(poor innocent victim in all this!)

As he does so(shake the table as walking past it carrying the hoover), a full and voluptuous bottle of seductively unopened red wine crashes to the floor (I watch it in slow motion) smash. the baby's bowl joins it.clink a jacket potato follows suit- thud splat, and thus the tornado has swept through the kitchen.
baby starts to scream followed by child 2.
more negative banter follows. I lose my appetite, comfort kids and serve up the slop- which it has now depressingly become.

I question myself whether this is the psychological reason the tornado struck- it often does somehow manifest when I have prepared pasta based suppers with less meat than pasta; or anything containing chick peas, fish with bones in; lentils or god forbid, tuna. then I tell myself- don't be crazy- you would never in your right mind tolerate wild angry tornadoes cos he don't fancy the supper.

blood red wine grows into a deathly puddle on the floor in front of the fridge- seeping right under and beyond, where I sense it will remain until the second coming or when I fetch some rubber gloves and get the scrubbing brush out.there are shards of glass in it. a sad and wine soaked baked spud is on top next to the bereft baby bowl. social services eat your heart out.
he will not clear it up and says it is my fault for talking to him always like a c u next Tues. and oh of course 'put the fucking hoover away next time' rings in my little ears.

so there you go.
oh life how fun it is.
and from where I sit I smell the now stale old smell of undrunk spilled red wine.