You can cheerfully acknowledge Jilly Cooper’s status as national treasure and her well-earned position in the literary canon without feeling a shred of affinity with the worlds and the characters she created. Jilly’s recent death at the age of 88 has shone a spotlight on her oeuvre, particularly the immensely successful Rutshire novels with their cast of devilishly attractive macho men and ravishingly pretty girls getting up to high jinks in the Cotswolds countryside.
It’s a posh world of hunting and shooting and nannies and public schools and huge houses, one which takes its privilege for granted. The further it is from the reality of most people’s lives the more enjoyable its shenanigans become.