By the time you read this, we will have driven past the sign for Mother Shipton’s Cave ten times in the past week.

And by the time you read this, we will not have been to Mother Shipton’s Cave ten times.

Unfortunately, all that changes tomorrow.

Because tomorrow, on the way to visit my ill mother, we’re going to Mother Shipton’s Cave.

You can almost sense the excitement oozing from the internets can’t you?

Apparently I’ve been before, but it has been fully erased from my mind. I don’t remember ever going. I don’t even think I want to remember, lest the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia make me think it was amazing.

Because it’s not going to be. Let’s face it. Even a quick internet search shows that most people only spend 30 minutes there.

Thirty minutes. It costs seven quid to get in. For thirty minutes of looking at a dark cave and a collection of tatty objects slowly turning to stone under a dismal drip of water. One review even says “seven pounds to see a plastic witch and a plastic bat…”

I know it’s going to be crap. Carole’s aiming to set her expectations as low as is humanly possible so she’s not disappointed.

Somehow, I think she still will be…