The Drugs Don't Work

I brace myself to pick up the phone and call my parents. It has been a week since I have spoken to the Aged Ps; more specifically to Mother. It was not a conversation I am in a hurry to experience again, so it is with some relief that the call is answered in stereo.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mother. Hello, Dad."
(I am vaguely aware of us sounding like a Dr Seuss script . . . What would the next line be, I wonder? "Hello, daughter. I am mad.")
"Oh, look at that! We've all picked up the phone at the same time.What are the chances?" Dad chortles.
"Huh," says Mother.
I force my face into a rictus grin and squeeze out the words: "So, how are you?"
"I'm fine, love--"
"No, you're not," Mother cuts in. "Tell her."
"Well, it's true I had a spot of bother yesterday--"
"A SPOT OF BOTHER! YOU NEARLY DIED! YOUR LEGS SWELLED, YOU FELT DIZZY--"
"Oh dear, Dad. That doesn't sound good."
"No, well. I think it's those statins the doctor put me on for my cholesterol--"
"Huh," says Mother.
"And I think really I would prefer not to take them."
"Huh."
"So I've decided to change my diet instead--"
"CHANGE YOUR DIET? HUH! I'D LIKE TO SEE THAT!"
"Mum!"
"Huh?"
"Mum, maybe Dad's right - if he hasn't got on well with the drugs--?"
"Y'father is stubborn. Too stubborn to listen to any advice, aren't you?"
Silence.
"AREN'T YOU?"
"Actually," rejoins m'father. "I am not stubborn. I am just a little bit fed up with you nagging me."
"I am not nagging. I am telling you that it is too late to cut down on fat now. Your arteries have had years of being clogged up with all kinds of rubbish. If you think you can lower your cholesterol just by--"
"Erm, hel-loooo?" I say.
"Oh, hello!" says Dad. "You're still there, are you?"
"Huh," says Mother.
"So, these statins," I say. "Are these the same statins you didn't want to take yourself, Mother?"
"Huh . . . mutter, mutter." Click.
The line clears and I can hear my father loud and clear with no interruptions.
"That's better," says Dad, with feeling. "I can hear myself think now."
"Yes," I say. "Maybe you should conduct all future conversations with Mother over the phone. Then you could cut her off whenever you felt like it?"
"If only it were that simple," sighs Dad. "If only . . ."