This evening I forgo the cheap thrills of getting legless on White Lightning with my gnome mates, followed by a stagger home aided only by a Zimmer frame, and instead head for the more upmarket climes of Waitrose.
As I'm piling the crates of Krug onto the passenger seat in the car park, I glance up. What meets my eyes beggars belief. There, round the back of the supermarket, stands an establishment revelling in the name of Pooland. Admittedly it's getting dark, the sign isn't illuminated, and the old laser eye treatment hasn't been as effective as one might have hoped. But I'm pretty sure that's what it says - Pooland.
I was tempted to investigate, but the place looked shut. I presume they must do most of their business first thing in the morning.