Lipstick on Your Collar

Many thanks to vivacious for the great header.

Lipstick on your Collar
By
Connie Francis 1959

I still remember all the words to this song, although the only things on my collar around that time were probably grubby, dirt marks from ignoring my mother's requests to wash my neck and clean behind my ears.

Life for an eight, going on nine-year-old in 1959 was pretty hectic. I mean, all those games to play, all those sweets to eat, all those comics to read, not to mention watching the newly acquired black and white television set which broadcast children's programmes after school, before closing down until later in the evening.

As my sister's interest in the male of the species grew, so did my passion for animals. I had a collection of over one hundred soft toys, all named and listed in a register complete with date of birth and all given home-crafted gifts every Christmas and birthday. I know, even my Dad will confirm I was a strange child.

I'd only ever owned one pet; a white mouse which had left for the great rodent cage in the sky a few years previously. I was desperate for another animal of my own; preferably a dog, but anything furry, scaly, hairy, feathered, with or without legs would do. But mother was having none of it, no matter how many whining and begging amateur dramatic performances I exhibited. .

One weekend I finally managed to wear her down when a friend deposited a stray black cat into my very willing arms. I bundled it into the house while Mum was at work, then later introduced it to the family during our fish and chip supper. After it had devoured all the leftover fish skins and rubbed its warm, purring body around mother's legs, her resistance weakened and I seized the moment. Blackie became a member of the family, but I was frequently aware my mum regretted her one moment of weakness. I think the only members of the family who truly liked him were myself and my grandmother, who by this time had little sense of smell.

I didn't want Blackie to be an only pet, so as my birthday dawned and I was asked what I wanted, I declared only another animal would suffice. I could not be persuaded to content myself with a stuffed one, so on my birthday mother and I set off to the market in Nottingham in search of a companion for Blackie. I'd already been told dogs or more cats were not an option and as mice, rabbits or birds were obviously not suitable chums for a member of the feline family, my choice was going to be limited. I think mother secretly hoped I'd give up on the idea.

When I spotted a box of fascinating creatures all clambering over each other my decision was made. After careful selection and Mum parting with five shillings, home I came with my new pet and a happy smile. Of course, I now realise exporting and selling creatures from other continents is cruel and should be banned completely, but at that time I was absolutely besotted with my new reptile friend, Oscar the tortoise.

Obviously, Blackie has long gone to the great cattery in the sky but I'm proud and pleased to tell you Oscar is still very much alive. We kept him for many, many years but eventually it seemed kinder to give him to a teaching colleague of mine who owned a lone female tortoise. The day he was introduced to Cleo I think he thought he'd died and gone to tortoise heaven and has since spent his days trying to make up for his many years of celibacy.

I was in love with ten-year-old Roger Green at the time, who I'd met at the local swimming pool, but my animals remained my top priority. My sister was probably leaving lipstick on collars, but I'd more likely be found with fur on my clothes, cat scratches on my arms and tortoise poop on my shoes.

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My boys out drinking together.