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are, I am told, extremely astute business men. They buy cheaply and make their cider for virtually nothing and sell it at a profit which is compounded, everyone is certain, by being undeclared and taxfree, for the Twomeys do not advertise their produce, not by so much as a hand-chalked board on the side of the road, all their business comes by word of mouth. People drive for miles to get "Twomeys." You have to bring your own receptacle, barrel or jug or old demi-john, otherwise you must risk taking away the cider in unmarked polythene containers with handles which are lying around the Twomeys' yard, and doubtless once contained tractor oil or disinfectant. You would think, indeed, that we'd all be poisoned by drinking Twomeys but, as far as I know, no one ever has been. I take along two gallon jars and pay, and one of them pockets the cash in his baggy corduroys, nodding and rolling the while, and the other disappears into the barn and comes back after a few minutes with my scrumpy. Rumour has it that, as Twomeys have never been seen to go to the bank, and when they visit the post office it is only to collect their pensions, never to pay anything into a savings account, they have socks or old mattresses upstairs in the ramshackle farmhouse, stuffed with money. Rumour has an awful lot of things about Twomeys. They seem to be supremely contented men, needing nothing and no one, neither wife nor child, friend or neighbour, only each other. I let myself think what everyone else thinks about them, that they are immortal. Certainly they dont fit into the twentieth century, or into any other century, for that matter. They never go away, have no television set, they do not take a newspaper. I wonder what they do do? I also wonder what will happen to the survivor when the first brother dies, for they seem to be inextricably inter-dependent, like Siamese twins, or the face and obverse of some coin. And what will happen to their premises - where cider-making is the only activity and everything is so fallen into decay and disuse? Who will they leave it to? I said all this to Mr. Elder, the evening after I'd collected the scrumpy. He sniffed. "Them," he said. "Dont you fret about them. They'll have something up their sleeve, never you worry." Perhaps. Anyway, I liked the fact that he apportioned one sleeve between the two of them. TOP CATS: No.3 (From "Country Living Magazine, December 1994) Tiger, the Village Cat Visit the village of Crawley Down in West Sussex and you are likely to meet 14-year-old Tiger, who belongs to the local pet shop but gives himself freely to the whole community. You may find him sleeping on newspapers at the newsagent's, visiting the nearby building society or even curled up in the dentist's waiting room. But on Tuesday night Tiger pulls his best stunt, patiently joining the line-up for the fried fish van - and taking a share of fish (batter removed) invariably bought for him by a fellow customer. Pet shop owner Jan Freeman admits there are penalties to Tiger's fame. When he was off the streets for a while, after being mauled by a dog, she had to post bulletins on the door to keep well-wishes informed of his progress. LAST W O R D S Enough is enough. May your mind "leap with optimism" about your future. Tony Scammell Editor