Alexander Graham Bell

Alexander Graham Bell It was fine, quiet winter´s day I listened to distant noise, dogs bark -you can´t avoid this in the Algarve- smoke from chimneys straight up before disbursing and disappearing. A few clouds drift about looking like wedding dresses of the unmarried, The sun is a golden coin captain hook would kill to obtain. I smell grilled sardine, and a cat on a fence is watching me. I sternly tell myself to go for a walk before it gets too cold But blithely ignore the inner voice. As I drift on a slothful cumulus, my phone rings I answer the voice says, sorry, the wrong number.