Not quite Amalfi

I knew a bloke once.
No relation. Thank God!

He loved the sound
of his own voice. Like,
really loved. He would
have slept with his
voice, if he could have.

But, as usual, I am
getting off the point.
This chap. The one
that I used to know.

He was something of
a boaster. "I'm a bit
of an expert..." he
would often say.

A lighthouse of words.
Announcing imminent
danger from the rocks
of devastating boredom.

Inevitably, the ship of
conversation would run
aground. Best leave
that metaphor now.

Wouldn't want to bore
you like he bored
me. Back to his boasts,
then. That's the story.

An expert in DIY, a
prize fisherman, the
best salesman in his
company, apparently.

But, and this was the
best one, turned out
he was also a painter.
An artist no less.

Talked the hind legs off
donkeys and then used
their tails as paintbrushes
I surmised, but oh no.

"I'm a bit of an expert at
trompe l'oeil" he said, with
the usual feigned modesty
to which I was accustomed.

Got him to explain what that
was. Bit rusty in French. A
realistic painting which creates
an optical illusion, apparently.

Said he'd done a view of
the Amalfi coast - typical
pizza restaurant decor - very
banal. No surprises there.

In his bedroom. So realistic
his guests were disoriented.
Thinking themselves in Naples
and not the North.

Very proud he was. So I
gave him his sugar lump
of praise. Cos you do, don't you?
With tossers like that.

Mez

x