Immortality. Now, if that isn't the ideal Christmas present for the person who has everything. And a snip too, at about €3,750. Sorry to be vague, but the actual price depends on currency fluctuations - these days, you see, immortality is quoted in Australian dollars, and the current price tag is AU$5,500.
As Faustian bargains go, this one is relatively painless. Simply send a cheque to the nice people at the Australian Museum, tell them the name of the person you want to immortalise, and they will handle all the paperwork and messy details. A devilishly good deal, and they don't even want your soul.
And why Australia? Well, when it comes to immortality of the modern, scientific kind, Australia has it in spades. You see, people there keep discovering new species. All the time. Everywhere they look.
And each time a species is discovered (discovered by scientists, that is), it has to be described and identified, and then given its own unique name in the international literature. This all takes time and, importantly, money.
Hence the Australian museum deal: you give them money, they use it to fund the research and, in return, they name a species after you. Or after your mother, both your parents, your neighbours, the dog, even your old school. . .these Aussies aren't choosy.
Traditionally, the scientific name given to a newly "discovered" species might reflect its appearance. So, the small dark-bellied fruit fly that inhabits your compost bin is named Drosophila melanogaster. Drosophila, the generic name for all such fruit flies, is Greek for "dew lover", while melanogaster, the species name for the common fruit fly, is Greek for "black belly"). Other species are named after people: the person who first "found" it, or a local bigwig, or the well-to-do patron who sponsored the expedition. Nowadays, however, as the Australian Museum has realised, everything has its price. And that includes specific names.
The drawback of the Aussie scheme - and surely all Faustian bargains have a drawback - is that your name will probably be given to some spineless invertebrate. No insult intended: it's not that they think you've no backbone, just that 95 percent of all animals are spineless. And invertebrates can be wonderful (think: honey bees, prawns, earthworms . . .). Anyway, this is immortality we're talking about, not reincarnation, and having a centipede named after you doesn't mean you'll return as a centipede in the next life.
But don't take my word for it. The immortal Prof Elizabeth Horner of Northampton, Massachusetts, has had a new species of centipede, Paralamycetes hornerae, named after her. And on www.austmus.gov.au/immortals she (Elizabeth, that is, not the centipede) is quoted as saying how pleased she is "to have been able to contribute in this small way to the systematics of centipedes". Immortal words, indeed.
Now, I'd have thought there would be a stampede of people seeking immortality. Not so: the museum has immortalised only 11 people (including Elizabeth "centipede" Horner), since it began this fund-raising scheme four years ago. So there's plenty of room in the pantheon for discerning Irish Times readers.
The museum thinks the low turnout is due, not to shyness, but to a lack of publicity - or more precisely, to a lack of funds to publicise the scheme. And here's where The Irish Times comes in: we help the Australian Museum to publicise the scheme, and in return, readers wishing to immortalise themselves, their parents or their dog should, when sending their cheque, tell Shelley Truskett that they first read about the scheme here.
Ever grateful for the help, Shelley will then, I am sure, have some spineless invertebrate named after us.
When sending your cheque bear in mind, too, that Latin grammar rules apply. (I'm sure I don't need to tell Irish Times readers that this means that, had Liz been Louis, the centipede would be P. horneri, but as she's a woman, its name is P. hornerae. Had we been immortalising Mr and Mrs Horner, the poor creature would be P. hornerorum. (And no, I've no idea what the suffix is when naming a centipede after Little Jack Horner & Co, pie baker by appointment.) The only other rule is: no offensive names or terms. Which is hard luck on the Ramsbottoms.
Australia is, of course, perfect for this scheme - partly because European scientists got there only about 210 years ago, and partly because this island continent contains so many weird species, many of which have not yet been scientifically described.
Ireland, alas, has been thoroughly scoured over the centuries, and there is nothing left here to discover. But don't let that stop you sending money to the National Botanic Gardens (Glasnevin, Dublin 9) or the Natural History Museum (Merrion Street, Dublin 2). You never know when someone will find a new moss or tiny fly that needs named.
Actually, a better bet is the Geological Survey (Beggar's Bush, Dublin 4), where staff occasionally find a fossil "new to science". If you can persuade them to cash your cheque and take your name, the only problem would be how to cope with being immortal and simultaneously extinct. No doubt there are counsellors somewhere who can help you heal the resulting damage to your psyche.
Meantime, it's hard to beat the Australian deal: a commemorative certificate; a framed illustration of your sponsored animal; details of its biology and ecology; and membership of the Australian Museum Society, "with all its benefits" (I quote from the website), including a one-year subscription to Nature Australia magazine. . .and your name preserved forever in the annals of science.