The Plough is a large estate pub but looks more like it is from an estate in the 1930’s than the surroundings might suggest. I got to the bar and ordered a Carling cider while sweat poured from my head. “It looks like you’ve earned this. How are you?”
“I can’t give it away on 7th Avenue,” I replied. She furrowed her brow, obviously confused. “Shattered.” I answered.
“Sh-doo-bee,” added the chatty fellow at the bar. I took my drink to a quiet spot thinking how it’s time to bite the Big Apple. I thought for a moment that I was delirious, but that would have been Prince, not the Stones.