You're very kind.
Despite the fact that her later books got very formulaic (and the incredibly archaic attitudes to things like sexuality and race all through them, even when she's trying to be less judgemental later on), Jilly remains a firm stalwart of my comfort reading.
To paraphrase one of her own a quotes:
"Reading a Jilly Cooper romantic novel is like eating a whole box of chocolates or going to bed with a rotter: you can't stop while you're doing it because it's so nice, but you regret it the next day".
I obviously don't regret it enough to stop - my copy of TMWMHJ fell apart recently.
Right, I'm off to pick some wild garlic to add to the most delicious and complicated chicken dish (which has an extremely perilous last-minute sauce
).
I'll just scrape a flannel under my armpits and between my legs (you never know...) and throw on an old jersey that I found in the dogs' basket.
I'll probably get transfixed by the beauty of a rainbow on my way out and rescue a few butterflies from the pantry first.
IRL, I'm just bloody fed up that I can't even trim my fringe with the bacon-rind-y kitchen scissors as it's growing past my nose.
I miss my eyebrow- and forehead-wrinkle covering, JC-style fringe.
Still (brightens), it'll be an amazing transformation scene at the hairdresser when they cut and "streak" it.
Then I'll get a fantastic tan by sunbathing topless for an afternoon and a lovely Irish journalist will know exactly (despite being all macho) what clothes to buy me and in which colours to take the last hint of red out of my suntan 
(Oops! I don't think we're in Kans... erm... Rutshire anymore, Gertrude)