What is there left to say?

This is the 40th entry to this blog, which probably represents a few thousand ill chosen words, one elaborate flourish too many, an untold number of grammatical fails, and innumerable pop culture references.  And yet words now run short; with each new entry I struggle not to repeat what has gone before. Amazing. Astounding. Astonishing. Surprising. Marvellous. Miraculous. Staggering. Hilarious. Mind boggling. Smelly. These do scant justice to Nancy or what it is like to be her father. Aside from the last; that one is perfectly descriptive. And this is before she can walk, talk (apart from identifying her two favourite animals) or bowl a decent leg break. And with each subsequent development more words will fall into to the realm of the wholly inadequate.

Mervyn Peake was right when he wrote “"[w]e are all imprisoned by the dictionary. We choose out of that vast, paper-walled prison our convicts, the little black printed words when in truth we need fresh sounds to utter, new enfranchised noises which would produce a new effect."  Nancy does just this - her communication is full of newly enfranchised noises that are at once joyous and totally perplexing to all but her - although the short high pitch wail which denotes her dissatisfaction with you or her position in life is readily understandable. And hopefully short-lived.

So where words fall short some glorious pictures will fill the void. Pictures of her paddling, cruising, gurning and being increasingly indescribable.