Antonia Bernardin

This is a regular feature, where I shine a light on an indie/ small print/ debut author who has submitted their details to me on the Indie spotlight page.

So, let’s get started with today’s spotlight:

Indie spotlight: Daniel Skinner

About Daniel Skinner

Daniel has self-published two previous non-fiction books (both were Amazon bestsellers in multiple countries, though small categories!). Also, he likes wine.

Where to follow Daniel Skinner

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Get Waffle Jones – Daniel Skinner

The plan goes swimmingly for the first ten minutes until a large and mysterious bag lands at his feet. What’s inside leads to him being pursued across London by villains, detectives, and yoga instructors.

So now he has a very big problem. If only he was aware of it.

An Extract from Get Waffle Jones

Dinner plate dropped into the sink for later, or tomorrow, or whenever, Waffle opened his fourth can and moved to the record deck. He peered through the perspex lid to see what he’d left on there; Slipknot, his initial she’s-left-me-and-I’m-really-pissed-off-about-it choice when he’d first come home and realised what had happened. It wasn’t a Slipknot kind of moment now, so he opened the lid and lifted the vinyl out with practised skill, dropping it back into its sleeve with a satisfying whooshing sound. He had to kneel down to get into his browsing position and began the ancient art of dancing his fingertips through the albums, pausing occasionally to appraise an option before carrying on. He had hundreds of records, amassed over the years, and of dizzying range. People always assumed that he was some kind of heavy metal freak, and he’d occasionally take mild offence in conversation at a party to demand what it was that had led the other person to leap so unfairly to such a conclusion. Was it his leather jacket, or his longish hair? Maybe his pierced ear or the ostentatious rings and other jewellery? Usually, the person would redden slightly in embarrassment and nod down to his t-shirt, which was regularly an old Iron Maiden or Anthrax one. ‘Oh yeah! Hoo-hoo!’ He’d laugh while slapping them on the back, feeling bad that he’d taken evident offence. What could he say? He didn’t actually listen to an awful lot of heavy metal bands, but he had to admit that they made the best t-shirts. And good break-up music. Fatboy Slim, Fats Domino, Fela Kuti x2, Flaming Lips, The Flirtations, Fleetwood Mac x4 (strictly Peter Green-era only), Flying Burrito Brothers (both), Foo Fighters, Free (all, natch), Fugazi, Funkadelic. Hmm… maybe Funkadelic? Good Sunday night music? He kept going. He got as far as H and settled on Herbie Hancock’s Headhunters album. A solid choice.

Back on the sofa, he leant forward to the tray, which sat on the shelf under the coffee table. He was tense and unhappy and there was only one cure for that — weed. Lager was good, lager was delicious, but it didn’t smooth the edges in the same way that a good spliff would. If anything, drinking made him more energetic, more alert, and if he was out somewhere where he couldn’t smoke then he’d be wide awake at whatever time he staggered home, eagerly looking forward to at least one goodnight spliff before he could finally relax fully.

On days when he had nothing much to do, he was perfectly capable of smoking from morning to late at night, prided himself on his capacity, in fact. Where friends of his might struggle with a particularly potent smoke and require a little time out for recovery, he would merely smile kindly through the haze and take good care of their joint for them until they were ready to take custody again. He took the packet of cigarette papers and pulled three out, licking the first to stick to the second — kingsize papers were for amateurs. As he began carefully constructing the perfect arrangement, he caught the missing TV in the corner of his eye and froze. He looked up to where the clock had been and then back down to his fingers holding the proto-spliff between them guiltily.

He stayed like that for several moments before throwing the papers down onto the tray. ‘Fuck it.’ He stared hard at them and then once again looked up to the wall, studying the perfect circle left by the clock that had protected the wallpaper from three years of smoke. What if he stopped now, what if everything changed in this one second? No more smoking, no more drinking, no more takeaways and a diligent attempt to find and hold down a decent job? And not just a string of temping jobs that usually lasted a day, but an actual proper, full-time job? Would that bring her back? How would she even find out if she was miles away? Well, maybe not a complete stop to drinking and curries, but just a normal amount, strictly weekends only. But back to the question: what difference would it make? Probably none; it was exceedingly likely that he’d never see her again whatever he did. But what if? What if she came back? She hadn’t taken the washing machine, it occurred to him, and she’d taken everything else she’d bought. It was a decentish one too, though not exactly top-of-the-range.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps the washing machine was at the heart of the whole break-up. When she’d first moved in, he was just using the one that had been left in the flat by the previous occupant. It had functioned adequately, according to the basic definition of a washing machine as being a drum that goes round and round. However, it was otherwise lacking in a few key areas. Firstly, it made the most godawful noises. Not just a bit of low-grade squeaking as it sped up, but something more akin to an industrial jackhammer trying to drill through an antique diving helmet you happened to be wearing. It didn’t help that the kitchen opened directly into the living area, so there weren’t even any doors to shut. It would build in pitch and volume until all other activity in the flat would be forced to cease, and it quickly became an unspoken rule that washing could only be put on as they were leaving the house for a minimum period of the 1 hour 14 minutes of the ‘economy’ cycle. Secondly, it was a wanderer: one of those inquisitive washing machines that apparently felt constrained by its allotted location and failed to resist an existential need to go forth and explore new territories. Luckily its power cable was only so long, but even then it would often be found in the middle of the linoleum on their return, jiggling excitedly like a guilty baby that’s managed to escape a playpen. Thirdly, it was shit at washing clothes. After a period of positivity following a new temping job that had been going well, Waffle had promised Nat he’d save for a new one. She’d been delighted at this news and had picked out the model she wanted on a special trip to Currys. It was very sleek, had a great energy rating, a large capacity and a digital screen for choosing your programmes on. It even played from a range of tunes when it was finished. Waffle had set no specific date for this special purchase, but as time passed, it became clear to both of them that there was never going to be a point when he’d have that much cash saved up. As quickly as it built up, it got spent again.

Conversations about the arrival of the new machine became increasingly fractious until Nat just gave up and bought one herself. It wasn’t as flash as the one she’d been promised, but it stayed where it was told and washed acceptably well in relative quiet. Nothing more was spoken of the matter after that, and Waffle spent the money he’d saved on a microwave instead. A relationship defined by the ownership of white goods. Maybe she’d be back for it? Or maybe she’d eventually reply to his texts when it had all blown over and she’d realised what she’d thrown away? He could easily drop it into a message that he’d changed, once a decent amount of time had passed to make the point. How long was that? He wasn’t sure, but it was probably more than a weekend. But not too long that she might forget him or find love elsewhere. About three weeks sounded right. That was it then, that was a plan. He had a mission. A Mission, even, in italics. He’d change, he’d become a better, healthier, happier man. And if she hadn’t come back for either love or the washing machine within three weeks, he’d text her and show her how much he’d improved himself. For her. For them. He sank back and allowed a smile to creep across his face. This was it. This was going to be his redemption. And if movies had taught him anything, it was that she’d definitely have to come back now. Fate couldn’t just leave a man to better himself and turn his life around without anyone noticing; that would be too cruel. He looked down at the tray in his lap and at the stuck-together smoking papers. Maybe one last spliff would do no harm, though? After all, he’d already started making it, and he was pretty sure he barely had any weed left, anyway. It would seem silly, not to mention wasteful, to leave a small amount unsmoked, surely? Plus, he could hardly claim to have cut right back on drinking when he was already four cans down on a school night. Again, why not just finish off the last two and then start in earnest tomorrow? New week, new start, that kind of thing? He grinned again. Yeah, why not? He’d allow himself this one last evening and then The Mission would start in earnest in the morning. That was a plan. He opened up the weed grinder to see how much was left, and his grin fell away sharply when he saw that it was empty. Properly empty too, not just casually empty. The kind of empty that meant he’d already given it a good shaking upside down and picked out all the last little pieces.

He closed his eyes and let himself fall back again, screwing his face up as he remembered the night before. He’d got himself pretty drunk after finding an old half-bottle of cheap brandy behind some soup tins that they’d bought one Christmas to make brandy butter, and he’d drunk most of it after his usual allocation of beers. He didn’t specifically recall going to bed, or finishing the weed, but assumed he must’ve had a good last sweep of his grinder and then forgotten all about calling Learner Joe for a resupply. Damn it! This was truly unfair. If movies had taught him another thing, it was that a man was entitled to a last blow-out before starting anew and attaining salvation. Fate clearly wasn’t on his side at all, and destiny appeared keen to force him to give up now, without simply waiting for him to wait until morning to give up.

Damn you, impatient destiny! How was he supposed to sleep now, anxious and uptight and suddenly nervous about his impending abstention? It wasn’t too late to call Joe, was it? He’d still be awake and eager to sell to his favourite customer. Waffle looked up to where the clock used to be, but it was no help. Still, he estimated it couldn’t be much later than midnight. He fished out his mobile and went to his favourite numbers. His thumb hovered over Joe’s name, quivering ever so slightly. He looked down at the empty grinder and then up, once more, to the white circle on the wall. ‘Damn it,’ he said, and threw the phone to his side. So this was how it was going to be. Salvation had been brought forward and tomorrow’s new day would be starting from now. He nodded slowly to himself, content that he’d been the bigger man, starting out on his new journey ahead of schedule. This time in three weeks, he thought, she’ll be back in my arms where she belongs. He’d even put the cactus back behind the curtain.

Where to buy

The book is available to buy on Amazon here

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