Competitive Hypochondria

Mother is feeling hard done by. For a change.
"Y'father's been getting far too much attention because of his cholesterol and his statins and his leg and his operation, and I just want someone to give me a bit of a fuss," she announces.
"Oh?" I say.
"Yes, I'm not feeling too good myself, you know."
"Oh?"
"Stop saying 'oh'! I have decided it's about time I went to see a gynaecologist," she says.
"O-oh."
There is a pause while I digest this information. I don't really know what to say. I have no intention of asking for the details of her latest medical needs if they involve an account of what is going on Down There.
But, inevitably, Mother does not wait to be asked.
I contemplate putting the phone down, covering my ears and singing, "La-la-la! Can't heeeeaaaar yoooouuu!" while she witters on at length, but I know I will only be tested on it all later, so I grit my teeth and let the words waft over me.
"Well, that all sounds, er, very uncomfortable," I offer, once she has finished. "I can see why it would be a good idea to go to the doctor about it."
"Yes," says Mother. "But, of course, it's not as simple as that, is it?"
"It isn't?" I am racking my brains for a good excuse to get off the phone. It would have to be an emergency situation to warrant cutting Mother off in full flow. Why won't the sofa catch fire or the dog be sick or a child fall out of a tree when you want them to? I think.
"Are you still there?" Mother shouts.
"Wha-- oh, yes, sorry I was just looking at - the cat," I say.
"You see, even my own daughter is too busy to listen to me. I don't know why I--"
"I am listening and I am still here," I butt in. I don't want to risk her repeating all those unmentionable symptoms again. "You were saying that it's not easy getting a doctor's appointment," I prompt.
"And that's putting it mildly!" she scoffs. "I just cannot believe that anyone can tell me the NHS is 'sacred'. No one does any bloody work there if you ask me. I only want the receptionist to arrange an appointment with a specialist, and she has the gall to say there's too much paperwork involved! I'm going to have to phone her again today to give her a piece of my mind . . ."
I wonder whether I should offer to phone this receptionist myself and give her a piece of advice instead: "Do the paperwork. If you don't, Mother will be on the phone every single day from here until eternity giving you A Piece of Her Mind. Not to mention a graphic account of what is going on Down There."
But instead I nod, mutter "Oh dear" in all the appropriate places and wait until the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.
"Anyway, I must go. It's University Challenge."
CLICK.
I never thought I would say this, but God Bless Jeremy Paxman.