Don't Mention the Bowels!

The Aged Ps have given up calling in stereo because they are "far too busy", Mother explains.
"That's great!" I say, with feeling. The busier they are, the fewer and further between the phone calls. "So what have you been up to?"
"Going to funerals, mainly," says Mother with relished gloom. "Everyone we know is dropping like flies."
"Oh dear," I say.
"It'll be us next," says Mother. She then pauses dramatically.
I rack my brains for a suitable response. "Oh, I shouldn't think so," I say eventually.
"Well, y'father's having his cholesterol tested again, so goodness only knows what that'll throw up. And his bowels are behaving most strangely, so he's having a tube shoved up his–"
"Holidays!" I interject.
"No, that's not what I was going to say," says Mother. "Haven't you been listening?"
"Definitely," I say. "It's just I was remembering that the last time we spoke you said something about going on holiday soon."
"And me talking about y'father's bowels reminded you of that?" says Mother. "Mind you, I'm not surprised. His bowels do get jiggered up whenever we go away–"
"Yes, so where are you going?" I persist, struggling to dispel certain extremely unwanted images from my mind.
"Germany."
"Oh?" I am surprised. They usually go to Italy, Greece or Turkey to look at Roman remains. How nice, I think, they are having a change.
"Yes, we thought it would make a change," Mother says, echoing my thoughts. "So we are going to walk along some Roman sewers that run underneath Cologne cathedral."
"That's . . . slightly . . . different," I say, wondering how Dad will feel about this, given his present predicament. "Anything else?" Even the Aged Ps cannot be doing this all week, surely?
"There's a reproduction of a Roman fort we thought we'd see as well."
"Right. This is with a group is it? An organised tour?"
"Yes. But we're not going with anyone with know. We prefer our own company. Which is a good job really," she adds gloomily. "As everyone we know is dropping like flies at the moment. . .'
And so (to borrow from a myth from that other great Ancient Empire most beloved by the Aged Ps) as with Sisyphus and his boulder, we are back where we started.
"Oh dear," I say.
"It'll be us next," says Mother. "I've told y'father to be careful on holiday. I've told him, 'Whatever you do, don't mention The War.'"
On that baffling note, I wish them a gute Reise.
"Don't you mean gute Fahrt?!" says Mother with a snort. "Knowing your father's bowels at the moment, that would be more appropriate!"
"Probably," I say, quickly adding, "bye, then!"
I know when I'm beat. There's only so far I will go with certain conversational boulders, it being too obvious where they will lead. And I am not woman enough to go there.