Delilah Explains... Justin

No twelve-year-old wants to live with the knowledge that their parents have sex. And, apart from walking in on them in the act, there is no greater confirmation that they're not 'past all that' than the announcement of a brother or sister in the near future. So I was pretty disgusted when I learned of my mother's pregnancy. They'd sat Clara and I down one Saturday afternoon to share their news. Mum had the audacity to beam at us as Dad spoke the words, the palm of his hand resting where there would soon be a bump.

I was disgusted. Clara was mortified. As a fifteen-year-old, she didn't want to start all over again with a new sibling. She'd put up with my appearance, had barely tolerated sharing her parents with a squawking kid once before - and they expected her to do it again?

No way.

But it happened. Justin came along. And wasn't he just the sweetest little thing you'd ever seen? Shockingly, Clara and I fell for his chubby little cheeks and his podgy, dimpled knees. We couldn't get enough of his gummy smile and would fall about laughing every time he blew a raspberry.

I loved being a big sister. I loved Justin.

And then the teenage years struck and our sweet little Justin turned into a little shit. If you're worrying that he'll see this post dedicated to his awfulness, don't. Justin won't see this. The only websites he sees are of the mucky variety.



Justin is fifteen now. Gone are the chubby cheeks and podgy knees. There is no gummy smile and Justin is more likely to give you the finger than blow a raspberry. He hardly goes to school, except to attend art (which he loves and is actually really good at) and geography (because he fancies his teacher). He'd much rather sit in his bedroom with his mates, playing gun-shooty games and bragging about the girls he thinks he has a chance with.

Of course, Mum think he's an angel. She believes him when he says he's been to school and that his teachers are 'picking on him' when they give him bad reports. Annoyingly, Clara still sees him as the golden boy we once knew so it's only Dad and I who can see him for the gobshite he has become (of course Dad doesn't call him a gobshite. Mum would never stand for that).