Delilah Explains... Clara

Clara was four when I was born. Up until that point, she'd been an only child and resented the fact that she was no longer the centre of attention. Nobody has actually said those words out loud but I know it's true. The evidence is clear:

• In every photo of me as a new born, Clara is scowling in the background
• Clara had a notebook dedicated to the scrawling of 'I hat my babby sistur' and similar
• I had to be taken to hospital when I was 11 months old after 'falling' down the stairs while playing with Clara
• Clara called me 'it' (it wants a biscuit, it's crying, it fell, Mummy, I promise) until I was 7

So Clara and I have never been close as sisters. Clara pretended she was still an only child and I eventually gave up trying to earn her approval. When I was 14, Clara moved out. She'd got into a university close enough to home to commute but she wanted to live the full student life (eating Pot Noodles, not washing and sleeping in until lunchtime from the sounds of it). Mum had been distraught - how could her grown-up daughter leave home? I think she expected Clara to still be living at home when she was married and popping out babies (funny, she's quite vocal about the fact that I'm 27 and still at home).

So Clara moved out and the distance transformed our relationship. We would never be the kind of sisters who swapped clothes and shared secrets but at least now we can be half-way civil to one another. I don't necessarily like Clara (she's bossy, pretentious and thinks she oh so sophisticated since she bought her flat with her boring boyfriend) but I don't hate her and we can tolerate each other for short bursts of time.

Clara is an accountant. She met her accountant boyfriend (the dull Graham) at some sort of conference and they moved in together a year ago (Mum had still been harbouring hopes that she'd return to her bosom until they arranged the mortgage for their own flat). Since then, Clara has hosted a total of 14 dinner parties (I've thankfully only been invited to one), gutted the kitchen (she couldn't stand the 'dated' look) and replaced it with a shiny new one that hurts my eyes. She tried to get us to go over to her flat for Christmas (the ambience in her living room was much more festive, apparently) but Mum was having none of it. She'd had Christmas lunch around the kitchen table at our house for over thirty years and she'd continue to have Christmas lunch around our kitchen table as long as she was still breathing. I'm sure Clara will have another bash at persuading her this year too but I don't fancy her chances.