‘Gasworks at Moonlight’ and ‘Water Closet’ at dawn were the irreverent names bestowed by my greasy haired pimply brother to the favourite perfumes of my youth.

If you remember 'Evening in Paris’ (small midnight blue bottle with silver coloured pointed top) and ‘White Fire’ (an equally small bottle but red glass) then you are older than you think; in fact like me you are child of the sixties.

Going for a night out was tantamount to a military exercise, the initial encounter taking place in a steamy bathroom with a transistor blaring out the strains of Living Doll from Radio Caroline.

A lengthy bath opens the pores in readiness for the artistic assault that is ‘make-up’.

Hair is wound round ginormous spiky rollers, kiss curls are set to the side of the cheeks with copious amounts of setting lotion spring clips and sellotape the whole creation being held in place with a thin scarf atop layers of lacquer.

Shaving your legs is a dangerous business, using thick layers of shaving cream you often misjudged and had to stop the flow of blood with toilet paper (one of its many uses).No Ladyshave then!

Moving from the bathroom the bedroom with its up to the minute melamine furniture and pretty décor superimposed with the posters of grinning Cliff and a moody Elvis the next stage began.

Hair, now released from its instruments of torture was backcombed within an inch of its life and finally after lots of hard works smoothing and spraying resembled the ‘beehive’ look we aspired to. Kiss curls still firm but without support stayed in place.

Layers of ‘pan-cake’ were applied to the face resulting in a clown like appearance reminiscent of Ann-May Wong as my mother used to say. Black false eyelashes were carefully stuck on with what felt like modelling cement and blended in with thick mascara liberally applied with a brush from a block you had previously wet with spit.

I never really worked so well with tap water. The result was two hairy caterpillars which brushed against your glasses. Deep violet eye shadow applied to the lids and then the whole lot outlined with an eye liner brush.

Lipstick came next, my favourite was Yardley’s Solitaire a colour approved of by my mother, and we applied three layers blotting in between with yet more toilet paper . The main idea of blotting was to prevent leaving a perfect lip shape on cups and glasses and heaven forefend shirt collars. It didn’t work.

One look at the early photos of Cilla and Dusty Springfield would give the uninitiated an overview of the final, hoped for, result.

Having spent a good half an hour on your make-up and upsetting the whole street with loud music you progressed to climbing into your underwear.

If you think Madonna invented the circular stitched bra, think again. We were wearing these instruments of torture in the 60’s in a choice of white or pink. Black did exist but if my mother was to be believed was reserved, along with ankle chains and red shoes for “girls who were no better than they ought to be”. If anyone works out what that really means then please let me know, but we all know what she meant.

The Brassier or bra were not fitted to you, you fitted into these cone-shaped assets

Should you not have breasts that were the shape of Vesuvius then you had to resort to help from the inevitable toilet tissue. If you were not so firmly padded you risked the fate of a crater appearing should you have been pressed to strongly against, a hoped for, masculine chest!

One of the rights of passage from childhood to puberty was the abandonment of the dreaded Liberty Bodice. This grossly misnamed garment was I am sure a leftover from the 18^th century; it encased the upper body from waist to armpits in a tube of cotton held firmly in place with lines of stitching. Thus the flesh was pressed into a firm unfeminine line; it fastened and unfastened with tiny flat rubber buttons up the front so as not to allow anyone to know you were wearing it!

After the Liberty Bodice the bra was something of a release, not so the’ roll-on’ or girdle. A joy to behold these were an elastic tube with large ‘suspenders’ handing from the bottom. You stepped into the circle and with great huffing and puffing shimmied it over your legs, thighs and hips, not unlike an amateur belly dancer thus enveloping your lower torso in this figure flattering contraption, Its main aim was to maintain a cinch waist, a flat tummy and prevent ‘bum wobble’. A heinous offence according to, you’ve guessed it, my mother.

Stockings took a while; the seams had to be straight. Then came knickers, and I do mean knickers, not briefs or pretty little lacy items I mean ‘belly warmers’.

It is one of life’s great mysteries to me how we ever managed to be seductive taking that lot off with any style.

It was best to put on your perfume now, whilst you still had access. Toilet paper soaked in perfume went down the front of your bra, a dab on curve of your elbow and each curve of the knee (don’t ask me why knees need to be perfumed.)

By this point you could be forgiven if you had lost the plot but the thought of the Palais de Dance or in my case the Astoria in Middlesbrough spurs you on..

Next came the paper nylon petticoat, this was exactly that, an underskirt of man made fabric stiffened to resemble paper, it was actually quite comfortable to wear.

Atop this was the layered net petticoat, shades of Come Dancing, this wondrous item,multi coloured had previously been soaked in sugared water to maintain its stiffness. Ruinous to tights, agony on the legs, death to the stockings was definite must if you wanted to show yourself at your best when dancing. Should you be sitting out then you strongly resembled a colourful peony with a head on top.

Next came either skirt, widely gathered or circular to show the petticoat , and a tight figure hugging top. Or, equally popular the shirt-waister dress, either of this was worn with an elastic ‘waspi’ belt to emphasise the tiny waist, after all that trouble you had to show it off.!

After all that effort you, plus your girlfriend, or in my part of the world ‘mate’ you would sally forth on an unsuspecting world.

It could be the local coffee bar or the dancehall but definitely in pursuit of the male of the species.

They were expected to be well dressed in tight trousers, winkle pickers shoes, hair Brylcreamed into an enormous ‘quif’ and, in my case at least have a passing resemblance to Troy Donahue or Audie Murphy.

Thus would begin the mating ritual of Homo sapiens 60’s style, but that’s a whole different story.

My name is Jill Allison.  I am a widowed granny (known as Mamoo) aged 80, and live in a village in the north of England. I well remember the ‘60’s dreaming of Elvis and hoping my ‘prince’ would come, he didn’t!! But I was happy with my three children and my life.  I was a nurse ( now retired) involved in community activities, enjoy (very much ) gardening , home body I enjoy all sorts of crafts. A grandmother to Tom and Ro. Ro is at university reading English, my son is in IT and my daughter a psychologist. We are all country people and enjoy the outdoors with our dog, Molly. 

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