Even though it's Tuesday. I want to crawl under a rock and not come out. I miss my friends and am inexplicably hurt that they are feeling the same way as me and don't want to catch up even though they're on holidays. Whinge whinge whinge - Winter can bite my fat hairy legs.
You want to know the definition of torture? That'd be me offering to redo the books that contain some of the products at The House of Bun that don't have a barcode. There's a couple of thousand of them, and we have a folder of them at each register. The ones we have are very out of date and are falling to pieces. So I am checking them. Line by line. And making sure we still carry them. And that the codes are still relevant (ie is it barcoded now? Take it out). And retyping most of them into one document.
Because the previous documents are badly formatted.
In Comic Sans.
Which I can't abide.
Now I'm off to choir rehearsal. I sing in a choir that surely takes an award for being the most confusing and convoluted and intricate evah. It's exhausting but it's either that or I'm going to sit at home alone in my big empty cold house, and be miserable.