Aged Ps Bingo

It is Christmas Eve Eve and we are awaiting the arrival of the Aged Ps. The heating has been cranked up to top notch; we are wandering around in shorts and T-shirts and sucking ice cubes, but it is worth it if it prevents Mother from sitting in the corner, shivering and telling us that "old houses are too drafty".
"What's the betting Grandma arrives saying, 'We've had a terrible journey. There are far too many people in this country'?" I say.
"Yes," says Daughter. "She'll probably blame it on the immigrants."
I sigh. She probably will, although I would like to know the exact statistics of cars full of 'immigrants' travelling from the south-east to the south-west on Christmas Eve Eve versus the statistics of cars half-full of pensioners doing that same journey.
"At least it's not raining," I say, trying to look on the bright side. "Otherwise she would say, 'It's been a terrible journey. And of course it's raining. It always rains when we come to see you.'"
"Grandma always says the same things," says Small Boy, with a puzzled frown. "It's weird."
"Yes, But instead of letting it get us down, I think we should ignore it this time," I say.
"Or make a game of it," Daughter suggests.
"Oh! We could play 'Aged Ps Bingo'!" I say.
"What's that?" asks Small Boy.
"Well, you know in Bingo someone calls out numbers and you mark them on your card and then shout 'Bingo!'?" I explain. "In our version, every time Grandma, or Grandpa, come to that, says one of their sayings--"
"You mean like how it's been a 'dreadful year', or how it always rains when they come to see us?" chips in Daughter.
"Yes--"
"Or if they mention immigrants?" she continues gleefully.
"Or if they both start singing in Latin or talking in Italian?" asks Small Boy.
"Or Swedish," says Daughter.
"Yes, yes! All those things," I say impatiently. "If they do that, then we get to kind of mentally mark it and when we've got four or five or them we can say Bingo - very, very quietly, and only to each other," I add hastily.
I glance at the clock. Five minutes to go. I can be that accurate, because the Aged Ps are. Unless it's been an even more terrible journey than usual, that is.
One minute to go and right on cue, the heavens open and the most torrential rain we have experienced in the past fortnight is tipped out of the sky on to our heads.
Dong! The clock strikes three and the Ghosts of Christmas Present arrive on the doorstep, rattling their chains and moaning.
"Urgh. It always rains when we come to see you," says Mother, shaking her umbrella out over Psycho Cat.
"Bingo," whispers Small Boy, sniggering.
"Ahem," I say, giving him a pointed look.
"And we've had a terrible journey," adds Mother, plonking her luggage down on the dog.
"Bingo!" chorus Daughter and Small Boy, in slightly louder whispers.
"Not now," I say through gritted teeth.
"And I've just reversed the car into that skip you've left in your driveway," Dad mutters. "Non effundit imbres sed."
"BINGO!" the children snort, choking on their inadequately suppressed laughter.
I am shaking my head and furiously mouthing NO, but the Aged Ps seem not to have noticed anything amiss. But then: "Bingo?" Mother repeats, frowning.
I freeze and feverishly start praying for forgiveness and promising to be nice for the whole of Christmas if only she won't ask the kids what they are going on about.
"Funny you should say that. Look what I've brought you." She hands them a box of crackers.
The packaging announces that the box contains small table crackers with a joke, suggestions for charades and a game of--
"MINI BINGO!" shout the children.
Thank you Lord, I think, as I leave them to rip off the packaging and pour over the contents of the box.
I seem to have got away with that one.