Regular readers of Beauty Best Friend will know that wherever possible I use organic bodycare products, and that I simply adore the organic brand Botanicals. A British brand whose aim is to create products 'which are as close to nature as possible', their bodycare and skincare is simply second to none and they're certified by The Soil Association. Over the past couple of years I've tried several of their products including my favourite Cleansing Melt and I haven't found anything that I don't like yet! This month I've been trying their Deep Peace Aromatic Body Oil which arrived with me just at the right time my husband had man flu, I had a cold and I was looking after our 16 month old toddler alone. Deep Peace was just what my body was craving! I was sent a small glass bottle of the oil to try, but the full size product is a larger 100ml pump bottle (it also comes in 200ml and 1 litre bottles too). The directions say you can use it in two ways, either massage it into shoulders, neck and arms before bed, or apply it all over the body after batheing. After a bath or shower is the best time I feel as the skin is damp and warm and the Deep Peace oil helps lock moisture into the skin and the warmth helps the scent to lift. This Aromatic Massage Oil is 99% organic and the ingredients include Lavender, Rose Geranium and Orange Peel oils. The fragrance is very subtle and perfect if you don't like products that smell overpowering. It's a bit 'planty', I think it's the scent of the Rose Geranium that comes through the most, and personally I don't absolutely love the fragrance, but it's pleasant enough and it does help the head to feel calmed (even when nursing a husband with man flu!). How does the author probably feel using all of these free samples? A. Upset that she cause her to get colds B. not enough information C. Excited to explore new products D. Worried that she will not like any of them
C

(Question)
"If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes." Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?" "That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog. "You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye. "That's correct," the dog said. Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid." "No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions." "C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead." "Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?" "Let me see 'em." The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross." "Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic." "What are the questions?" "Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?" "C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone." "Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?" "They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb." The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?" "Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes." They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said. "You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said. "What treasure?" "When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." Who is Tommy's favorite U.S. president? A. not enough information B. Lincoln C. McKinley D. FDR
(Answer)
A

Ques:November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." Where does this story take place? A. china B. not enough information C. new york D. the south

Ans:
B