Punting on the Styx

I'm back

2010-04-17T03:29:00.003-04:00

A big pause in blogging while I concentrated on losing weight (I seemed a bit porky next to that sleek rocket!). Off to Shanghai in two days time to meet with a repatriation company. Will keep you posted.

Photos from the launch

2009-12-07T05:42:00.005-05:00

So I lost track of the days..

2009-12-04T00:57:00.002-05:00

there was a 9 hour drive, a spectacular hour and a half boat crossing, dolphins playing in the wake, a magical private island with the most genererous, open and gracious hosts, the best of food and wine, some confused sheep, a moving historical backdrop and...

A ROCKET WENT TO SPACE.

I never thought it could be so wonderous. I find myself stunned at how a thing man has made has trumped every natural wonder I have ever seen.

3 days to launch

2009-11-26T01:44:00.004-05:00

I wonder if they will actually say blast off? Had a lovely cameraman and newsman coming to do an interview- all those steps with that equipment was nothing short of heroic- they weren't even breathless.
My wonderful grandmother's photograph was on TV3 news- have to stop getting teary.
And the greatest news- there is space for my marketing advisor on the island so I won't have to drive the 9 hours alone (or worse yet leave her in a hotel on the mainland while I sail off to Mercury Island- cruel!).
Mr Rocket must be a wonderful man.
Here is the TV3 coverage (an ad will play first)

4 days to lauch..

2009-11-26T01:40:00.003-05:00

did the obvious thing and got an excellent design team- Totem - to help. Chaucer Press, await MY invoice.
Mark Rocket must be an excellent chap with the unlimited patience for my design issues when he is trying to launch a rocket!

5 Days to go..

2009-11-24T13:29:00.005-05:00

Renewing my onslaught on Chaucer Press to provide me with a copy of my logo that is not low res, pdf and bright pink. Have the launch information pack now- I note the liability waiver includes emotional injury- what do they have planned??

6 Days to go - rocket countdown

2009-11-24T13:17:00.003-05:00

Counting down to the rocket launch. Unbelievably excited. Because of a late out-of-town meeting I shall have to drive up- a drive of 8 and 3/4 hours according to the AA online calculator- and see some parts of the country I have not yet seen (usually I see I lot more than I intend to in my search for shortcuts and backroads!). Very intrigued to meet Mark Rocket- yes, he changed his name to 'Rocket'- how fabulous! Here is the Rocket Lab website with all the specs of the machine- I'm working on expanding my knowledge and vocabulary in this regard, but will most likely just be in jaw-dropping awe.

Joining the space race!

2009-11-23T03:22:00.007-05:00

Off to Mercury Island on Sunday to be a VIP at the launch of the first commercial rocket in the southern hemisphere. Amazingly exciting- wait for the photos. Here is what I am putting on the rocket in memory of my grandmother and her favourite songline...

A great eulogy by John Cleese

2009-10-25T23:17:00.001-04:00

"Graham Chapman, co-author of the ‘Parrot Sketch,’ is no more.
He has ceased to be, bereft of life, he rests in peace, he has kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breathed his last, and gone to meet the Great Head of Light Entertainment in the sky, and I guess that we’re all thinking how sad it is that a man of such talent, such capability and kindness, of such intelligence should now be so suddenly spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he’d achieved many of the things of which he was capable, and before he’d had enough fun.
Well, I feel that I should say, “Nonsense. Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard! I hope he fries. “
And the reason I think I should say this is, he would never forgive me if I didn’t, if I threw away this opportunity to shock you all on his behalf. Anything for him but mindless good taste. I could hear him whispering in my ear last night as I was writing this:
“Alright, Cleese, you’re very proud of being the first person to ever say ’shit’ on television. If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to be the first person ever at a British memorial service to say ‘fuck’!”
You see, the trouble is, I can’t. If he were here with me now I would probably have the courage, because he always emboldened me. But the truth is, I lack his balls, his splendid defiance. And so I’ll have to content myself instead with saying ‘Betty Mardsen…’
But bolder and less inhibited spirits than me follow today. Jones and Idle, Gilliam and Palin. Heaven knows what the next hour will bring in Graham’s name. Trousers dropping, blasphemers on pogo sticks, spectacular displays of high-speed farting, synchronised incest. One of the four is planning to stuff a dead ocelot and a 1922 Remington typewriter up his own arse to the sound of the second movement of Elgar’s cello concerto. And that’s in the first half.
Because you see, Gray would have wanted it this way. Really. Anything for him but mindless good taste. And that’s what I’ll always remember about him—apart, of course, from his Olympian extravagance. He was the prince of bad taste. He loved to shock. In fact, Gray, more than anyone I knew, embodied and symbolised all that was most offensive and juvenile in Monty Python. And his delight in shocking people led him on to greater and greater feats. I like to think of him as the pioneering beacon that beat the path along which fainter spirits could follow.
Some memories. I remember writing the undertaker speech with him, and him suggesting the punch line, ‘All right, we’ll eat her, but if you feel bad about it afterwards, we’ll dig a grave and you can throw up into it.’ I remember discovering in 1969, when we wrote every day at the flat where Connie Booth and I lived, that he’d recently discovered the game of printing four-letter words on neat little squares of paper, and then quietly placing them at strategic points around our flat, forcing Connie and me into frantic last minute paper chases whenever we were expecting important guests.
I remember him at BBC parties crawling around on all fours, rubbing himself affectionately against the legs of gray-suited executives, and delicately nibbling the more appetizing female calves. Mrs. Eric Morecambe remembers that too.
I remember his being invited to speak at the Oxford union, and entering the chamber dressed as a carrot—a full length orange tapering costume with a large, bright green sprig as a hat—-and then, when his turn came to speak, refusing to do so. He just stood there, literally speechless, for twenty minutes, smiling beatifically. The only time in world history that a totally silent man has succeeded in inciting a riot.
I remember Graham receiving a Sun newspaper TV award from Reggie Maudling. Who else! And taking the trophy falling to the ground and crawling all the way back to his table, screaming loudly, as loudly as he could. And if you remember Gray, that was very loud indeed.
It is magnificent, isn’t it? You see, the thing about shock… is not that it upsets some people, I think; I think that it gives others a momentary joy of liberation, as we realised in that instant that the social rules that constrict our lives so terribly are not actually very important.
Well, Gray can’t do that for us anymore. He’s gone. He is an ex-Chapman. All we have of him now is our memories. But it will be some time before they fade."

The line that always gets me is that he died "before he had enough fun".

Nurse Lucy

2009-10-18T00:20:00.008-04:00

The luscious Lucy Lawless (aka Xena Warrior Princess) was in Wellington this week to raise awareness on climate change. I bet isn't one right-wing senator who could fail to sign anything presented by Lucy in a nurse's uniform...hint - export Lobbying Lawless to the US if you want some climate change action. Gore's just not that hot.

(note to marketers- the ad copy:

"Lucy Lawless signed on and she wants you to join her
http://www.signon.org.nz/"

sounds like she is asking everyone to go on the dole, further stereotyping climate change believers as loser lefty layabouts)

While I was sleeping...

2009-10-17T21:55:00.006-04:00

A reporter on breakfast TV got hold of my business card. Who could he be associating with?

This day this year...

2009-10-13T17:16:00.005-04:00

In the quintessential Kiwi bach in Mahia on the East Coast of New Zealand. Surf-casting for dinner got us a wharehou. One pub run by a female former prison warden. Shakes her head in disgust at the thought of tourists who want 'customer service'. Makes some fine preserves and a tomato and rhubarb sauce.

An attempt to get medication for my worsening cold reveals that cold medication is sold in the local store only in bulk- apparently to prevent the manufacture of 'pure' methamphetamine- 'P' (?!). Am tempted to ask locals if they can turn some of their P back into cold medication.

This day last year...

2009-10-12T18:21:00.000-04:00

G&Ts in Thailand as the world economy crashed.

Happy Old Man's Day

2009-10-02T19:28:00.002-04:00

"Old Man’s Day, commemorated in the quiet village of Braughing (pronounced Braffing) in Hertfordshire, is a custom that somewhat unusually celebrates something that - happily - didn’t happen. On October 2 1571 a sad procession was making its way to St Mary’s church in the village. Among the mourners was the fiancée of farmer Matthew Wall, who though still in his prime had been found dead. As the pall-bearers walked along tree-lined Fleece Lane one of them slipped on the leaves that had fallen in early autumn. The coffin slid from his grasp and fell with a jolt to the earth. When the men took hold of their burden again they were to say the least shocked to hear banging from within the coffin. The fall had woken Matthew from his coma or narcoleptic fit, and he was thumping the lid quite literally for dear life. Saved from being buried alive, Matthew went on to marry his sweetheart and to live another 24 years. In his will dated 1595 he made provisions to commemorate his remarkable escape. Matthew left the income from a piece of land in the village to ensure every October 2 the church bells would toll in remembrance, and later that they would ring a wedding peal to recall his marriage. The sexton of the church is enjoined to place brambles on his gravestone to stop sheep from wandering over it. And rather more strangely given the circumstances, Farmer Wall made arrangements to ensure Fleece Lane be swept on October 2 – had the lane been clear of detritus on October 2 1571 he would have met a terrible end.These days it is schoolchildren who sweep the lane on Old Man’s Day, for which they are rewarded with sweets, and a song concerned with the miraculous escape is sung in St Mary’s. It is to be hoped that youthful imaginations play on the happier aspect of the tale, otherwise...sleep well children."

Only-Person-in-the-World-Syndrome 2

2009-09-26T18:46:00.002-04:00

Stopping at the top of escalators and having a little look around.

Only-Person-in-the-World-Syndrome 1

2009-09-25T18:43:00.000-04:00

Walking into lifts without waiting to see if anyone is exiting of them.

Shaken, not interred

2009-09-24T19:17:00.008-04:00

For our generation, cremation has become a stock-standard option (in New Zealand, Christchurch was the frist place to have cremations), but it is really interesting to hear funeral directors from the US talk about how resistant they have been to cremation. They say it is because they did not really understand that you could have an open casket and a funeral service prior to cremation.

The open casket is core to business in the US because embalming is where they see their profits and their unique selling point, as it were (well, according to a comment by a head of the national funeral directors in the US).

The potential banning of formaldahyde in the EU due to its correlation with cancer, poses huge problems for embalmers. There are other products, but they simply don't work that well. This is bound to be a huge topic at the upcoming Funeral Expo in Boston next month.

The environmentally concious are concerned about the toxins involved in the embalming process as well as the big carbon footprint caused by cemetary maintainence and cremation. But perhaps a solution is at hand.When I discussed the method developed in Sweden for freezing a body with liquid nitrogen and vibrating it to dust with a US funeral director, his reaction was immediate: 'Will never work, people find it disgusting'.

I take comfort in the fact that the funeral industry has not been very accurate in its predictions to date.

This is the process:

British Banned Ad

2009-08-11T01:22:00.006-04:00

A British company's advert for themed funerals.
Like the porn star funeral a lot.
Can you believe this ad was banned? - talk about the last taboo!

Pull up to happiness

2009-08-06T23:08:00.005-04:00

I have a deep dislike for blackboards outside shops with trite homilies and banal quotations about the difference a smile can make or whatever. Perhaps it is just that I am very irritated by being told what to think or how feel- especially by people whose jobs involve writing on blackboards.

But today I found this-

-and I have to say I quite like it.

Ongaonga

2009-08-04T19:40:00.003-04:00

A petrol emergency on a back road made me possibly the happiest person ever to see the hamlet of Ongaonga. No such thing as specialisation for this high street business - painting, plumbing, joining, building, ironmongering, selling and repairing Massey Fergusons... undertaking. They do it all.

I almost got run over by a tractor while taking this picture. What a boon that would have been for Coles Bros.

Granny

2009-07-30T19:22:00.010-04:00

Susanna Johanna Maria Lizamore nee Steenkamp has died. She was my Granny, and I was the apple of her eye.

Her early years are a murky mixture of family legend and sealed court documents. The story goes that her mother killed her abusive husband by hitting him on the temple with a milk bottle filled with sand.

An Indian family in Durban then took my grandmother in, but when the apartheid laws came into force, she was taken from them and placed in Nazareth House, where she was tortured for being left-handed and an extraordinary blue-eyed, blond-haired beauty.

She ran away at 12, and became a tap dancer and singer. She met a Mandolin player - he was the court interpreter in the case against the thief of her red shoes, which were stolen off Durban beach. It seems that he may have been arrested because she was underage- my grandmother always said that she never stopped loving him.

I met my grandmother much later in her life. She had married my grandfather, a serious, studious, stern man who was completely tone deaf. They had lived on isolated farms and mines from the Free State to Northern Rhodesia. She had had 5 children and 6 miscarriages.

My grandparents slept in twin beds and I would sleep with my Gran in hers. She used to tell me ‘magic stories’. They would always begin, ‘There was a magic girl, her name was…..’ and I would laugh, and squeal and kick her and say ‘No!’, and she would say ‘…..Clare!’. More laughter and squealing. The stories were truly fantastical- I can still picture the giant bee people coming down the road to attack us. Luckily, I was magic.

She loved roses and would walk around the garden in her dressing gown burning the big black and yellow rose beetles with her lighter. She washed her hair in gentian violet and folded my grandfather’s socks in this incredible way that would allow him just to slip his feet into them.

When my grandfather died, she moved out of the suburbs into the centre of Johannesburg. She lived in the Mariston hotel. I spent a lot of time there with her. I made my first friends- an old couple who ran the kiosk downstairs where I was sent to buy Granny’s cigarettes. I must have been about five at the time. There was a ballroom on the top floor of the hotel, and every night I would sit in a corner and watch the spectacular foxtrots and tangos of Granny and friends.

Yes, friends. She had an endless supply. Her favourite song, mantra and philosophy, which she seemed always to be singing under her breath, was ‘People’.
‘People who need people, are the luckiest people in the world.’
And everyone, it seemed, needed Suzy. She amassed an odd collection of women who claimed to be ousted Russian royalty, and a British friend, Anita, who claimed to be Duchess fallen on hard times. I adored this perfectly mannered woman and her pop-eyed Pomeranians to the extent that I wanted to change my name to ‘Anita’.

This extraordinary pack of elderly women would accompany my grandmother to nightclubs where they were well-loved for their passion for music and good times. Anita had been a gymnast and my grandmother said she would cartwheel and do flick-flacks across the dance floor of the clubs to tremendous applause.

Although minute in stature, my grandmother was fearless and feisty. When her handbag was stolen late one night, the perpetrator was run down by her and the pack of Tzarinas. She took back her bag, swung it, and relieved him of his front teeth.

Granny developed a love for a flutter and the horses, I would imagine more for the crowds and the excitement than the gambling, although she was always lucky. For my 9th birthday she gave me a roulette set.

She loved chocolate and it was a real treat to go with her to the OK Bazaars pick ‘n mix. She was generous to a fault- if you said you liked something of hers it was immediately yours. Jewellery, clothes, furniture. Everything, except her records.

The only thing I came to dread was her saying, ‘Make Granny a cup of tea, my Darling.’ It had to be in her special cup (the porcelain had to be fine) and no matter what I did, her white with two sugars never, ever met her expectations. She was vociferous in her criticism and she drank the tea with puckered lips.

She always had the radio on and, when forced to go outside to smoke, she would take her radio (which took a battery the size of 2 Rubik’s cubes), sit outside with a glass of whisky and her pack of Peter Stuyvesant 30s. I took up smoking at that stage probably just so I could sit there with her.

When any of her children chided her about her smoking, her response was always a sweet, patient, ‘But my Darling, I don’t want to get old.’

She had an Icelandic boyfriend, Didi, quite a bit younger than her. He was creative, loud, with bright blue eyes to match her own- they travelled to Iceland and had a ball. They used to stay up all night with the aid of diet pills, and the police used to come round in the early hours to try to get them to turn the music down, which Granny though was a hoot – ‘Clapton’s “Them Changes” just can’t be played softly!’. Didi stayed sober all year and would drink himself into intensive care every Christmas. One year, he didn’t come out of intensive care.

I once had to interview Granny for a school history project. I sat with her in her flat in Hillbrow – she was always on the balcony watching the people go by - and asked her about her past. What she told me was totally untrue- she was a karate black belt, had married a ship’s captain, danced with Nina Simone in New Orleans, on and on and on. I presented it at my sober private school as fact, where good manners prevented contradiction.

More recently, when I infrequently visited her in South Africa, Granny would tell anyone who would listen, ‘This child is the apple of my eye.’ She would describe how, when I was very small, I would ride on her back when she scrubbed the floor, and how she would pretend to trip and fall 10 times a day because I thought it was the funniest thing ever.

There will be no funeral service- she never was one for religion. There will be a wake and the family will consider what to do with the ashes- we know that she has to be among music and people. My vote goes to the New Orleans jazz festival and a grand fireworks display. After all, she was born on 5 November- Guy Fawkes Day.

England - not the mamma

2009-07-22T19:47:00.009-04:00

I got sent a photograph of me and PJ O'Rourke by Agnes, a lovely woman, and one of the Loheni sisters who run Mena. They make wonderful Pacific-styled garments, and were taught to sew by their mother, after whom 'Mena' is named.

Last week I was party to a beautifully impassioned conversation where Hummingbird owner, the delightful John Coleman, talked about how New Zealand needs to embrace the fact that it is part of the Pacific.

I couldn't agree more, but with a maximum of 8 degrees Celsius, it does seem that some days England is still playing Mother.

Not with a whimper..

2009-07-21T22:59:00.006-04:00

I admit that when it comes to scattering ashes I think that pyrotechnics is by far the most wonderful way to do it. As someone who has chosen this method once said to me 'I don't want my grandchildren to look at an urn the mantelpiece and think "There sits Nana". I want them to look at the sky in awe and say "There goes Nana!".

Fireworks have the magical property of being able to make us all turn into children.

My pyrotechnics partner, Firework Professionals Ltd, sent me this photograph of a roman candle send off today. Now that's the way to go!

The truth about Pravda

2009-07-20T20:42:00.010-04:00

I've had two strange restaurant experiences recently. Last week, when ordering my much-loved carpaccio, I was asked if I knew what it was. Last night, ordering a much-loved Rioja at Pravda, I was asked if I knew anything about this wine. Hint to waiters- if the person can pronounce it, they have probably had it before. I am trying not to take this personally.

More about Pravda- it was my first trip there. I was in excellent company and the wine was lovely, (had to drink much of it because the restaurant was underheated and drafty).

I was very disappointed by the main course, although I can now answer the question 'just how tough can one make pork belly?'.

As for the gnocchi - I doubt the chef can even pronounce it.

(And yes, times are tough, but a little refurb on the bathrooms wouldn't go amiss...)

Why NZ newpapers should cease to exit, push up daisies, hop the twig

2009-07-17T22:32:00.004-04:00

I am totally enamoured with technology. Especially when it allows me to avoid poor quality, slow and overpriced services I have found time and again with local designers.

I have had the exceptionally good fortune to work with a designer in Jakarta who seems to be awake 24 hours a day just waiting for me to contact him. All I know is that he has a Muslim name, and from his profile is male and 25 years old.

After working with him non-stop for 32 hours once, I thought that he may just be a figment of my imagination, especially as, when the final flash animation and pdfs were sent through, he told me that he did not require payment.

Yesterday, I received an email from his sister in barely comprehensible English, saying that he had been in an accident and would be in hospital for at least a month. He had asked her to contact me immediately to tell me that he couldn't finish the work he was preparing.

And then I saw the news of the bombing in Jakarta.

I have become accustomed to the lack of anything resembling journalism in the mainstream press, but the parochial and colonial headlines made me sick to my stomach.

"NZ man dies in five-star hotel terror blasts". (Dominion Post Weekend)
"He did so much for them". (Weekend Herald).

..um.. and the other 8 dead and 52 wounded?

Just take a moment to think about what 'wounded' actually means when it comes to a bomb blast...

My designer lost his feet.

These newspapers should be no more.

Because every family deserves one..

2009-07-06T16:57:00.007-04:00

If you want to have the same casket as your pop idol (pay heed, webjock!), here are the specs for Michael Jackson's casket:

Made of solid bronze, plated with 14-karat gold, and polished to a mirror finish, it comes at cost of $25,000 from the Batesville Casket Company. Their motto is: "because every family deserves a Batesville".

It's the same model in which James Brown was buried.

(in case you are wondering, the difference between a casket and a coffin is that a casket is rectangular, and a coffin is hexagonal)

Method Accent

2009-07-03T04:24:00.000-04:00

Off to celebrate the 4th of July with Lawless in Hawke's Bay. She insists I adopt an American accent for the event, so I am trying to speak like Chris Rock. You should have seen the face of the checkout girl at the supermarket when I used my new accent to say:

'I love being famous. It's almost like being white, y'know?'

and

'No, I don't have no goddamn, m******king Flybuys card.'

Bedstone

2009-06-30T21:44:00.004-04:00

Very romantic grave marker. But his arm is going to go to sleep.

Cuddle Bunny

2009-06-29T23:50:00.000-04:00

Increasingly as I research options for interesting things to do with ashes (my favourite is obviously scattering them with pyrotechnics), I find services pertaining to dead pets.

Soft-hearted products put the cremated remains of pets in pillows so that you can still have a cuddle.

Do we think there is a market for human ashes in pillows? At an average of 2,5 kg, probably not.
Perhaps a futon?

Things I'll miss about my house....

2009-06-29T19:06:00.003-04:00

... waking to the sound of furnace blasts as hot air balloons go over my roof.

.. sleeping in the forest in the summertime.

Free Lunch

2009-06-24T00:07:00.004-04:00

Yes, there is such a thing. I went to the little Korean food kiosk in Lambton Square to pay for the 5 pottles of kochujang (Korean hot sauce) they gave me yesterday evening when I was walletless (chilli emergency - what more can I say?). Anyway, I was given a free sushi meal. I would have been totally surprised except that it was given to me by a South Korean.

I was in South Korea a few years ago, and found the people to be wonderfully generous and open. On the first night I was there, in some semi-industrial area in Incheon, I want to the shop at a petrol station to get something to eat. The person behind the counter took money out of his own pocket to buy me three different bottles of Korean rice wine to sample.
The kindness was extraordinary. I would go to a bakery and buy a croissant, and a loaf cake would be thrust upon me before I could leave.

The North Korea issue is so hard on them, with many families split up in the divide. A trip to the demilitarized zone (DMZ) was chilling. (I’m going to find the photos and post them. Just as soon as I have found my wallet).

But the South Korean government may not be that enamoured with a unified Korea. I went to a talk in New Zealand by a very senior Korean official (Ombudsman, perhaps?), who thought that reunification would be a disaster. I hadn’t heard this sort of talk since my childhood in South Africa:
‘North Koreans couldn’t even be servants; they wouldn’t be able to use an iron. They would break it.’

Well, seems they might know a thing or two about nuclear missiles.

Roots, shoots and leaves

2009-06-20T20:45:00.008-04:00

Wasabi

I have harvested my first wasabi. It's the little green stub in the middle of the photo- I ate most of it before I got round to taking a photo. The shoots and leaves are wonderful in salads, sandwiches etc, but the root packs the punch.

I’m totally addicted (also to chili) and was thrilled to learn that wasabi prevents dental cavities, but have yet to find wasabi toothpaste. It would be a great improvement on the ubiquitous peppermint flavour.

Here are some of other good things that wasabi may be able to do:

Prevent cancer
Wasabi is a rich source of chemicals known as isothiocyanates, which appear to activate enzymes in the liver which detoxify cancer causing substances before they can do damage to the body. They also appear to interfere with other steps in the formation and metastasis of cancer cells. They exert their anti-cancer effects without damaging normal cells.

Act as an anti-inflammatory
Researchers hope that wasabi may be used in the future to fight inflammation associated with such diseases as arthritis, asthma, and allergic reactions.

Reduce heart disease and stroke risk
It may reduce the risk of heart attack and stroke by preventing abnormal clot formation.
Counteract food poisoning

Valerian (right)

Some people say the root smells like old socks, but I don’t think so- I quite like it, actually.

Oh I do love New Zealand Crop and Food Research – their factsheet on valerian says it all:

‘One of the most appealing aspects of valerian as a sedative is that it does not interact with
alcohol, as do barbiturates, and does not leave the user with a “hangover” in the morning.’

Marshmallow (top)
Great for mouth ulcers, stomach ulcers, dry coughs, sore throats, cystitis and hiatus hernia.
Very good for the skin, being said to boost dermal structure and improving wound healing processes, while at the same time reducing skin aging and diminishing inflammation
And as if that wasn’t enough – it is used for cleaning Persian carpets in the Middle East.

Echinacea (right, with leaves)
This is touted as a:

blood and lymphatic cleanser
natural antibiotic, increasing production and activity of white blood cells and stimulating the immune system.
anti-inflammatory, and can stop a cold, flu, and other infectious illnesses before they can spread in the body

Full fathom five

2009-06-20T04:32:00.001-04:00

There are 7 designated areas you can be buried at sea in New Zealand. Several of them are also munitions dumping grounds.
I was doing a bit of investigation for one of my members, when an analyst at Maritime New Zealand mentioned that burial at sea was being reviewed. Huh?

So I made a request under the Official Information Act to get to the bottom of it. Here's what I learned:

"Maritime New Zealand records do not include any direct communications formally raising concerns about burial at sea. However, there are anecdotal reports from regional offices that burials at sea have caused concern to iwi on more than one occasion".

So because of the more than one (let's call it two) anecdotes, they have on their work programme consultation with coastal iwi in each of the 7 sites and funeral services sector. They have already met with independent facilitators.

Luckily, the work programme has been delayed:

"While Maritime New Zealand acknowledges the importance and complexity of issues related to burials at sea, only one or two applications are received per year."

Importance and complexity??

11 people have been buried at sea in NZ since records were kept- 2002.
Approximately 172 people drown per year, and at least a few of those bodies are not recovered.

So how about we redirect the money for consultation into funding coastal search and rescue operations?

As for my gentleman, I shall lobby relentlessly for his right to suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. And to have sea nymphs hourly ringing his knell.

Eye for an eye

2009-06-19T17:20:00.008-04:00

I have 'Donor' printed on my driver's license. My mother keeps erasing it with a black marker. She's convinced that if doctors know I'll donate they won't try to save me. This despite me telling her that it doesn't mean anything, anyway, because your family still has to agree.

So, here's the rule of thumb on organ donation:

If you would accept organs or tissue to avoid your death, the death of your child or anyone you love, you should be willing to be a donor and agree to your family donating. It's a no-brainer.

New Zealand, along with Australia, has one of the lowest rates of organ donation in the world.

Australia started a donor register in 1995, where you can itemise exactly what organs and tissue you would like to donate.

You can also register that you don't want to donate.

So when the ticker turns dickie, the liver collapses from one too many bourbons and coke... well, my guess is those Australians who have registered 'no' aren't even going to make it to the donor list. Jolly good.

Quarantine, please.

2009-06-18T00:05:00.007-04:00

The travel was more than worth it though to spend some quality time with MsT in front of an open fire, eating the unbelievably delicious fish pie (she had accidentally doubled the amount of cream- she should rewrite Jamie Oliver's recipe).

We had fantasies of being quarantined indefinitely for suspected swine 'flu.

What I woke up to...

Last words

2009-06-16T05:22:00.001-04:00

People lie. People in uniforms lie relentlessly. Witness the air hostess announcing that sending a text message will cause the plane to crash and burn. Simply untrue.

So as I was circling in a plane that may have faltered and sunk, I of course sent a text message to MsT waiting on the ground. It went: ‘Christ, I need a drink.’

And then I got worried that those would be my last words. My stress compounded. But I couldn’t exactly send, ‘Fresh horses and whisky for my men.’ Though in retrospect, it may have been quite fitting.

The good and bad...

2009-06-13T19:31:00.006-04:00

When travel plans go awry, you really get to see the good and bad of human nature.

My scheduled 25 minute trip across the Cook Strait did not go according to plan. After almost two hours, three aborted landings in Nelson we all ended up back in Wellington. MsT, watching the attempts from the airport in a chauffeur's hat,believes it was due to my well known ability to cause performance anxiety in men- in this case the Pilot. The Pilot blamed the fog.

I admit I felt really anxious and disoriented after a while of circling in the dark. I just wanted to get out- not a an option. The atmosphere was unbelievably tense. And then one of the passengers, a handsome man decided we all needed a cup of tea. So he got up and made it and brought it round- with lashings of lollies to follow.

It really is extraordinary how comforting the ordinary is, and how someone can just know exactly the right thing do in a situation.

Back on the ground, there was a lot of really bad behaviour, with Air New Zealand staff somehow blamed for the weather and the fact that people had not bought travel insurance.

I made the most of being back in Wellington by hanging out with some super people and going for a boogie at The Mighty Mighty until 4am to celebrate what had now been dramatised to 'my near death experience'.

New day, new plane. Gate 13 on the 13th. Not that I am superstitious. The whole plane suddenly died- lights, propellers, the works- just as we were about to taxi off.
Luckily, there was a ukulele player on board and a few Cuban singers. It made everything just fine.

While rebooking, I overheard conversations about the age of the Air New Zealand planes, which will always add a little a more adrenalin to these trips. I did think that perhaps it was a sign not to go (although I am not superstitious), but then thought of the woman who had missed the Air France plane that crashed, only to die in a car accident. When your number's up...

Back in the passenger seat

2009-06-12T00:11:00.003-04:00

I’m off to the lodge for the weekend.

It’s always disconcerting to fly after there has been an air disaster. The good news is that I am flying in a tiny propeller plane. My preference for small planes apparently means I am not actually scared of flying but, rather, a control freak. Hmmm.

So now I’m going to breathe deep, think happy thoughts and head immediately and determindly for the airport bar.

Burlesque

2009-06-11T19:06:00.017-04:00

"Ready for Takeoff" at bar Bodega was promoted as 'an evening of shimmy and shenanigans from the rising stars of Wellington's burgeoning burlesque scene'.

My understanding of burlesque as a bit of a romp, an over the top, exaggerated variety show did not prepare me for this event.

There were elements of what I expected- a couple of songs, a sword dancer, and who would have know the host from my favourite Wellington lunchtime restaurant, Chow on Woodward Street, was an Elvis Impersonator?..

But really, what stands out was all the stripping. And the pole dancing.

A strip club where you can take photos (had I known I would have brought my camera rather than having to take photos with my phone. Damn, I would have brought a video camera like most of the audience!). And you don't even have to tip.

Wellington, I think I'm beginning to like you!

Not everything you read here is true

2009-06-10T21:18:00.004-04:00

I have had two calls from my members to gently inform me that I was wrong in the matter of the secret petrol pump clue. Apparently this is not the case for either Porches or Land Rovers. Um.

Well, let me just immediately say that this information came from Lawless, and she has purposely misled me before in search of a good laugh. Example:

She told me that ‘The Piano Teacher’ was a wonderful film for a first date.

I called her the next day asking what exactly there was about genital self-mutilation that she thought would inspire romance. Whereupon Lawless belly-, snort-laughed –‘Gottcha!”.

No second date. If there had been even a suggestion of one, I would have been worried.

As for the pump thing, you still have a 50% chance of it working.

RIP Peter Rabbit

2009-06-10T00:09:00.008-04:00

I was greatly impressed by Webpecs' suggested lunch venue - the waitresses wore bunny ears and little fluffy tails.

If the costumes simultaneously brought to mind Beatrix Potter and the Playboy mansion, the decor was equally oddly put together- Irish tavern meets Southern man bar meets urban chic (the latter a hangover from the previous tenants, I am reliably informed).

We plucked up our courage to try the pun of the day:

Although neither of us could imagine actually swallowing the rainbow coloured jelly and and beer shot, the meal was rather nice, with the purple potato tasting overwhelmingly like chocolate.

And it really was a coffin.

Mascara palaver

2009-06-08T17:02:00.015-04:00

Black Mamba (in honour of David Carradine's character in Kill Bill, I am now naming all former partners after snakes) pushed me to the Bobbi Brown counter in Kirks and said 'this woman urgently needs a makeover'.

What makes my search for the make-up room in that hotel in Hong Kong even more ridiculous is that I don't use make-up. For good reason. It gets me into trouble.

The last time I used mascara, for example, was at platform 9 of Wellington station and two policemen threatened to lock me up (to those of you who voted on Stuff's online poll that I should be arrested, I know who you are. You're the people who stop dead at the top of escalators and barge into lifts before looking to if anyone is getting out.).

I got made over, and was more than a little put out by Black Mamba's extreme excitement on finding there are cosmetics that, when applied layer upon layer, can mask the blue bags under my eyes.

But, as I explained to the sweet girl performing the Herculean task, I don't have to wear make-up, because I am not going to have an open casket funeral. If I was, I would immediately start rouging and lipsticking.

Why? Well, I really don't want people standing around looking at my face, beautifully made-up by the mortuary cosmetologist, thinking:

"She scrubs up quite well. Who would have known?"

or

"Pity she didn't make the effort when she was alive, she might not have lived alone with her only companion, a budgie."

The five point palm-exploding heart technique?

2009-06-05T21:19:00.006-04:00

Auto-erotic asphyxiation may not exactly be the five point palm-exploding heart technique, but it seems it did kill David Carradine.

It's sad to think of a 72-year-old man hanging dead in a cupboard, naked with a rope around his throat and penis. But to me the thought of him committing suicide is far more disturbing.

In the US, there are about 1000 cases a year reported of death by auto-erotic asphyxiation, mainly amongst adolescent boys. The real figure is thought to be much higher - parents often clear the scenes of pornography, lubricant and other paraphernalia, so death is deemed to be suicide.

How strange that people would prefer to believe their child committed suicide, rather than accidentally killing themselves in a sexual experiment aimed at euphoria and lowering inhibition?

Many deaths from auto-eroticsm are in fact not by asphyxiation, but by the heart attack caused by the change in blood chemistry (this is why even if you think you have the safety feature of being able to put your feet on the floor at any time, or have someone else with you, you may still die).

So perhaps the Snake Charmer's heart did, after all, explode.

As for the reporting of David Carradine's death:

When long-time family friend and Carradine's former lawyer Vicki Roberts, who represented the actor in a past divorce, was asked whether he had a history of using auto-erotic asphyxiation, she replied: "No, absolutely not."

My guess is this may not be something you share with your family friends and divorce lawyers.

How many blondes does it take to end the recession?

2009-06-04T21:15:00.006-04:00

Perverse incentive.

The Latvian Blondes Association organised a march to end the recession.

Why would you want to end anything that brings the blondes out in droves?

Would you take this drug?

2009-06-04T20:17:00.004-04:00

There is a drug that is reputed to make you smarter, thinner and improve your mood - the anti-narcoleptic, modafinil (aka Provigil, Modalert). The only downside seems that it may be addictive. No kidding.
It is found in the rat packs of the French Foreign Legion and lunchboxes of US school children. .

It was developed by the French. They also developed a drug in the '80s that could make you immediately sober. It was never released because although your mind is clear, your body is not. It was decided that alcoholics would simply start drinking again and repeat the pill/drink cycle until their livers exploded. Fair call.

But wouldn't it be handy just to have one of those pills in your emergency kit?

PS after a discussion with a doctor, it seems that madafinil also makes holes in the white matter of your brain.

Bodies may determine causes of plane crash

2009-06-03T18:20:00.002-04:00

The father of one of the passengers of Air France flight 447 says, "I just want to find my son's body so that he can have a dignified burial."

Finding the remains is vital for closure – so is knowing what caused the disaster and exactly what happened. In this case, where there is a good chance that the black box may not be found, retrieving the bodies of passengers and having aviation pathologists examine them may provide the only clues.

As terrorism has not been ruled out, intactness of the bodies is a way to determine whether the crash was caused by a bomb. Highly fragmented bodies with many ‘foreign bodies’ embedded in them point to an explosion. Likewise, plotting people’s seat numbers against burns and injuries can determine, for example, where a fire or explosion originated.

You can also tell whether people where thrown clear of the plane in midair by the internal damage caused by ‘extreme water impact’ that causes serious aortic tears, broken ribs, punctured lungs. A long fall will also remove clothing.

The big question is always how it felt in those last moments. Mercifully, it seems that once a plane starts to break up, it takes only 5-6 seconds for it to be completely in pieces.

People who have survived crashes say that they were so traumatised at the time that they were detached – although they knew what was going on, they didn’t feel part of it. This at least must bring some small comfort.

"AA 587 crash site in Queens - from NOAA. Even today’s advanced - seemingly invincible - airliners are no match for Mother Nature on a bad night. If a big airplane ends up in the teeth of a powerful thunderstorm, it could be torn to pieces in an instant."

I got too old

2009-06-02T23:10:00.002-04:00

Lawless said to me before dinner, "Don't get too old tonight."
By the feel of my head today, she tells my I apparently did get too old last night...

Apologies to the people I promised to Skype in - I couldn't find out why it wasn't working.

For those of you who couldn't be there, this is the fun you missed.

The amazing rubber girl did tricks

Mr H. Moody was in attendance, trying to find a Ukranian bride

We danced...

Someone got a tutorial on how to look good on Skype

Almost everyone managed to fit into the kitchen

And all the beautiful people were there...

... and Mike. He cooked us a rabbit.

Skype Junkie

2009-05-31T09:03:00.001-04:00

Used Skype for the first time. What a wonderful, wonderful thing.
I shall never have to drink alone.

Buddism

2009-05-29T20:08:00.005-04:00

Arrived back to snow to 200m and a car that won't start. If any of you know anything about cars, it would be interesting to know what it means when an automatic is simultaneously in Park and D4 - my guess is it's irrevocably stuffed.
I started a sad little fire with a few sticks, bits of furniture and letters from the Inland Revenue Department and deeply regretted living in a home with 14 foot ceilings.
The food situation was dismal- two kiwi fruits, a lime, wrinkled half red pepper, and mouldy courgette. But at least I knew I could dig a few potatoes out of the frozen ground.
It was finally the wine situation that persuaded me to go across to Mrs Asia and Biker Barry to borrow their truck to get to the supermarket. Not that I had no wine, rather that as I have now become an international booze and confectionery courier, I have been repaid in fabulous wine. So I was looking at a bottle of 2005 Noon reserve Shiraz, 2006 Lake Breeze 'Bernoota', and 2006 Envoy Gewurztraminer (only 6 cases ever produced), knowing that it would be a travesty to drink any or all of them. Realising I would soon commit said traversty.

Biker Barry has found Buddhism. Last time I was over he had found wild mountain oreganum. He is working his way though 96 books on his way to enlightenment. Of course, as he says, you keep on realising what a total wanker you are and this makes it a bit difficult.
I've never got Buddhism, so asked Barry to please explain, briefly (I am a bear of very little brain and we were on the second bottle of Argentinian plonk).

So he told me this story:
Two monks are walking to a monastery. On the road is a woman who doesn't want to get her dress dirty by walking though a mud puddle. So one monk picks her up (either he or his mate is called Tarzan- I forget -let's say it's his mate's name) and carries her across the mud. Now apparently as a Buddist, you shouldn't help people out like this. So the two monks walk for another 5 hours to the monastery, with Tarzan seething because of what his mate (let's call him Raleigh) had done. When they get to the monastery, Tarzan angrily asks Raleigh why he carried the woman. To which he responds, 'Jeez, Tarzan- you've been carrying her for 5 hours!'

True story. Turns out Tarzan is not an African name.

I can tick 96 titles off my reading list. I'm keeping the faith in chivalry.

Head to Toe

2009-05-28T14:50:00.000-04:00

I think of my hair as a separate entity - usually an unruly child. So it is wonderful when I can take it to a professional for some discipline. In Hong Kong, a wash and blow at one of the local establishments will put you back a mere HK$38 - HK$58. Believe me, if I lived here it would be in permanent child care.

I found a young man across from the hotel in a very empty shop. I got the usual magical wash(you lie horizontal) and head massage (with flicking, which sounds odd, but is lovely).
Then non-English speaking young man got to work. Nasty gansta rap on full blast (I can only hope he really didn't understand English or this would have been disturbing), a hairdryer in each hand, and then a roller brush in each hand. Which got tangled. It was very painful, and he kept running off every few minutes to speak on his cel phone. This is the photo of me alone with said brushes in hair waiting for the torture to recommence. Still, he didn't try to sell me 'product'. And my hair behaved itself for a full three days in the Hong Kong humidity.

The feet are even more disturbing. This time to the pedicurists, who shake their heads and call for backup when they see the skin buildup from walking either barefoot or on incredibly high heels. A shanghainese pedicure sorts this out. My favourite place is on the 8th floor of the Regent Building in Central called 'foot'. TV, lazy boys, rooms with only three or four chairs. A great place to do business and they are open to 2am week nights and 3am week ends, so you can have your dancing feet massaged after a hard night. Civilized.

Morton Bay Bugs

2009-05-27T03:42:00.004-04:00

These are the most delicious things - tastier than crayfish. Divine.
Named by someone who didn't want to share.

African Wedding

2009-05-25T06:07:00.003-04:00

Anu got married. After many failed attempts at arranged marriages (she dumped one Silicone Valley IT genius because he sent her an electronic card with a flower that lost petals- 'I love you, love you not..'.).

I would have been there but for the funeral directors' conference.

My homesickness is reaching critical proportions. Oh, the Eastern Cape. The chapel with the water tank, the aloe in the milk urn and the half-hearted barbed wire.

I'm coming home. Marlene, get the tackle ready; Simon, make sure the Honda is insured; Tanya, put on Nina and crack the Tassies; Nige, fry up some polony; and Annie, start looking for another Karoo farm for us.

And my darling Anu, don't you dare give birth before I get there.

Scrap zoos, watch Discovery

2009-05-25T05:15:00.021-04:00

In the astoundingly offensive 'Foreigners around the world', written by PJ O'Rourke in 1976, the one good point about Australia is 'Amusing zoos'.

Not so Australia Zoo.

Some people object to the general philosophy that allows so much interaction with the animals - but I reckon if you have them in captivity, you might as well give them a cuddle. So:

Handlers walking around with snakes that you can touch

A couple of guys hanging out in the tiger enclosure

Woman picking stones out of an elephant's foot (Indian elephant, that is - would have loved to see that trick with an African!)

Couple of people cleaning the shell of a tortoise with a dish scrubber

and

I personally got to fondle a few kangaroos, which made me feel simultaneously warm and fuzzy and tragic.

All good.

BUT:

The cult of Steve Irwin is too weird. The cult of Bindi is terrifying. 'This is where Steve used to do a lot of his filming,' says the shuttle driver,'and also where Bindi had her first tree house.'

The place isn't big enough to warrant a shuttle (unless you are obese- more on that later).

If you want a bird show, go to the Jurong Bird Park.

There is a shop for every enclosure filled with Bindi merchandise that puts Hannah Montana's to shame.
'Almost no women are bitten by snakes?', 'Why?', 'There are no snakes in the kitchen.' Handler humour at Australia Zoo.

The only hint of amusement is the naked terror of the guys in the enclosure with the crocs (I overheard a very tense conversation on the walkie talkie about an angry crocodile and near miss).

IN CONCLUSION:

Yes to the breeding programmes, yes to the biggest animal hospital in the world.

Yes to learning about animals on the Discovery Chanel- far more death and sex.

Bottom line: someone (else) is going to die, but there will be a fabulous funeral featuring flights of black cockatoos and a moving eulogy by Bindi.

Me in Coffin

2009-05-24T23:33:00.000-04:00

Meet in Coffin

2009-05-24T22:12:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. This blog is meant to be about 'adventures in the business of death'.

But let's face it, no one actually wants to talk about death. Apparently, this is even more so the case for the Chinese.

So they have designed 'Meet in Coffin' - they bussed in hundreds and hundreds of very, very old people, popped them in a coffin, where a TV played a 3 minute video on death. I was amazed that they survived the experience.

I got as far as getting into the coffin, but would not let them close the lid. If the video had been in English I may have had to face my claustrophobia for research - for once I am glad not to understand a word of Cantonese.

Hotel Jen

2009-05-23T19:30:00.004-04:00

A little gem on Queen's Road West, Hong Kong Island.

An irritating peculiarity of Hong Kong is that they have very set ideas about swimming pool usage. They close them over winter (I was horrified to find pools are emptied in October when the temperature is still in the 30s), and often close them at sunset (for example, the Grand Hyatt and the Renaissance). So it was a great relief that the pool was full and available to 10pm.

How to reconstruct a face

2009-05-20T18:45:00.010-04:00

Bad things happen.

You can be sitting in a lecture contemplating the wonder of Wednesday night in Wan Chai, where as a 'lady' drinks are free from 10pm, and then you are staring at a full screen picture of one of the funeral director's mates who blew his face off with a shotgun. Let me just say you quickly regret those last three passion fruit Daiquiris.

All you need to reconstruct anyone's face is their thumb and index finger.

Place your thumb and index finger together. The distance from the top of the thumb to top of the index finger is the length of your nose, the distance from bottom of chin to bottom of nose and the top of nose to hairline (amongst others). This is not new- another gem from Leonardo da Vinci.

To find the height of the eyeball, place a pencil from the brow to the cheekbone. The highest point of the eyeball would touch the pencil.

Astounding. Of course, every woman I spoke to afterwards had the same thought- what is the golden proportion that will allow us to avoid disappointment?

When they lay me down...

2009-05-20T00:10:00.002-04:00

... in a 24 karat plated casket, chances are someone will dig me up.

Fine dining in Macau

2009-05-19T20:58:00.024-04:00

Paella
An omlete, but not as
we know it.

Maverick and the chef from Barcelona

Genuflected in churches and walked the pretty Portuguese squares in searing heat with the giant Aladdin's lamp casinos in the distance. Duty done, foraging begins.

It proved difficult to find a restaurant with character and a sea view, but Maverick worked his magic with a super-helpful tour guide.

And so we came upon the Pousada de Sao Tiago, dated 1629. An absolute treat despite the humourless maitre d', who was appalled by the amount of food the three of us ordered and told us we would never manage it. More fool him. Perhaps he was just put out that the restaurant was now Spanish with the arrival of the new chef from Barcelona.

We were enthralled by the bathrooms. Everything was automatic and worked on sensors, including the doors, so you didn't have to touch a thing...except, well, ...yourself.

Perhaps too enthralled. After filming the miracle and wonder of it all with Maverick as the star in the male bathroom, the staff very kindly told us they would drive us to the ferry in the hotel shuttle.

I would upload the video, but I filmed it horizontally.

Did I mention the superb wine list?

T-shirts on Queens Road West, Hong Kong

2009-05-18T22:08:00.019-04:00

'Fight your tears'
(with a left hook)

'Give you my luck'
(could be a good thing or a very, very bad thing)

'Too Bored'
(so chewing gum and drawing rabbit ears on my photo)

Hong Kong Trams

2009-05-16T23:15:00.003-04:00

If you sit at the top in the front, you have a fun-fair feeling as the tram suddenly changes direction or seems to be on a collision course with a building or vehicle.

(All fun and games until I remembered that Frieda Kahlo was terribly injured in a tram accident - I got paranoid about ending up with a unibrow and a lout called Diego).

The trams run along Des Voeux St- it takes half an hour from Queens Rd West to Wan Chai, and they continue to North Point and Happy Valley. Slow, but lovely and only HK$2 no matter the length of the trip.

In all the time I was there I saw only one Westener using them. Another bonus.

Smashed, Martina?

2009-05-13T23:56:00.010-04:00

The HK International Art Exhibition opened on the same night as the Funeral Expo event at the Jockey Club, Happy Valley.

I was invited to the opening (well, actually something called a 'vernissage' - had to urgently call my Creative Director, Mr H Moody, for clarification) and thought it the better option. I may well have been wrong.

I do believe that every expat on the island was in attendance- I met with everyone I knew in Hong Kong who was not travelling. The fashions were jaw-dropping.

The art was not.

The tone was set by Martina Navratilova bouncing coloured tennis balls at the direction of an artist. I am sure because the proceeds go to charity, it is bad form to mock, but I say bollocks to 'ball art'.

One of the redeeming features was that I had bumped into Ben Quilty on the flight from Sydney. He is a fine, fine artist and in temperament reminds me of another great artist, Nigel Mullins. Quilty's work ('Smashed') was a relief from the Asian fat men and all-been-done-before pieces that had women as coffee tables.

Heaven

2009-05-13T09:00:00.000-04:00

Naughty little hyphen

2009-05-12T23:13:00.002-04:00

I actually spent some minutes searching my small hotel room for the make-up room.

Black Death

2009-05-12T21:30:00.011-04:00

The only upside to the grotesque 4.30am check in time at Wellington airport was seeing Dylan Moran . Made me feel proud of my grand 1988 Lagavulin special reserve hangover in the presence of such a professional.

A brief conversation with him made me wish I had brushed my teeth and/or hair for an extra thirty seconds that morning.

My business brought a reaction of amused disbelief.

"Have any of your members died yet?"
"No."
"Don't worry, they will."

A true comic: one that can make you laugh at 4.45am about your friends dying.

Travelling light

2009-05-10T05:26:00.001-04:00

In line with my new travel policy, which stipulates that I shall only travel with hand luggage, I have been proudly displaying my single piece of cabin luggage, boasting that it weighs a mere 6kg (including copious amounts of reading material).

No one seems that impressed. In fact, their first reaction (both men and women) is to ask what I do with all my moisturisers and shampoos now that they can’t be taken on board.

In my experience, hotels have shampoo. Loads of the stuff. You get a new bottle every day.

And, really. Haven’t they noticed the copious number of moisturiser testers in Duty Free?