The new Rivals is full of boisterous bums. What a relief | Rachel Cooke

HAfter seeing a preview of the new TV adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s 1988 novel Rivalson October 18th on Disney+), all I can tell you is that it was a huge relief for me. Its producers, thankfully, felt no need to re-educate the lecherous residents of rural Rutshire – not even the so-called “Cad” Rupert Campbell-Black – and the result is a feast for the eyes. Eight extremely lively episodes are full of exuberant bums.

I’m not suggesting that Cooper’s work is art – although of course there is art in it. But I’m deeply attached to her. Her romances about posh girls in Fulham, a place I knew nothing about at the time, got me through my A-levels and I’ve seen her as a kind of guardian angel ever since. In 2006, I interviewed her at home in Gloucestershire, four days before my wedding (readers, I had to submit the article before I went on my honeymoon). When I confessed this to dear, friendly Jilly, she was horrified. Why, she wanted to know, am I not lying at home with cucumber slices on my eyes?

The day before the wedding – still no vegetables on my body – I was typing frantically when the doorbell rang. A man stood outside with a bottle of champagne in his arms. It came courtesy of Cooper, with her congratulations and admonition that I get help for my workaholism.

Celebrate organs

Head to London’s South Bank to watch groovy young organist James McVinnie do his best (technical term) on the Royal Festival Hall’s huge organ, an instrument that celebrated its 70th birthday this year. The program included works by Byrd and Liszt as well as a performance by Reef-Raff by British composer Giles Swayne, who sat in the audience looking quite dapper in a black turtleneck.

Reef-Raff premiered in 1983 and listening to it is incredibly exciting: a kind of prog rock experience. His influences include the music of Senegal, Philip Glass-style minimalism and boogie-woogie, and even a layman like me understands that it demands a lot from the organist. As McVinnie played his infamous wild pedal solo, my friend Tom whispered that his legs flying from left to right and back again looked a bit like Kermit’s when he sang (It’s Not Easy) Bein’ Green To The Muppet Show.

Miranda July fever

Prada is running an advertising campaign in which a model is photographed with a luxury handbag while calling the so-called “Miranda July hotline”. If this service really exists, I’m afraid I’ll soon have to choose it myself. It took me forever to finish reading July’s novel All foursin which a middle-aged woman embarks on a crazy odyssey of experimental sex and interior decoration, mostly because I couldn’t bear to read it in public (when a young man on the train saw it in my bag and winked when I looked at myself, my whole body turned purple). Even now that I’ve finally made it to the end, I’m still gripped by an obsession. I could talk about it forever.

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Not that I’m the only one. One minor character in the book leaves a particularly, er, indelible impression on the reader, and my closest friend, whose identity I will protect here, has a habit of texting me her name at random moments throughout the day. “Audra…, Audra…, Audra…” whispers my phone, its screen now cracked because I dropped it on the pavement in a moment of intense menopausal anxiety.