We had a big storm today and the Ash tree is almost bare. Between the heavy showers we headed for the park to walk the dog. The park is always the best option for a walk when there is a gale blowing in from the South as it is bordered by a broad band of woodland that breaks the onslaught and makes the walk tolerable and close to being pleasant. The dog was a little cantankerous today i.e. not coming when called, running off in the other direction, not responding to the magic word ''chicken''. Eventually he came back and jumped into the jeep with a decidedly conciliatory expression on his face. That dog does not know how lucky he is for we were the only dog owners out in the park this afternoon! Home then to making a good Indian dinner, Chicken Korma, a half of cooking apple always makes a huge difference and don't forget the sultanas! As I was making dinner I started to think about that Roddy Doyle story again in the New Yorker. Yes, I did get to finish reading it and yes, I thought it was horrendous. And as I sauteed the chicken breasts I wondered if any other writers out there think like I do. Can you be Roddy Doyle and write a (lousy) sorry, story, and still get it published in the New Yorker just because you happen to be Roddy Doyle? Who says it is good? What is the standard? Are there rules? No rules? I'm confused. Really, Roddy is wonderful but this story.............ahem, honestly I think it could have been written in a half an hour while he flossed his teeth!! Anyway, thats it, the storm has died down now. The curry was great. The house is settling for the evening and Lenny, well he still looks a little guilty but what else is new?