People who wear cream trousers are not of this world.

There must be a planet far, far away in the nether regions of the universe where there are no children, no animals, no dust and no over-flowing cups of latte with ill-fitting lids, where herds of eternally glamorous people roam in well-cut cream slacks.

Every now and again a pod must leave the planet for an intergalactic Tupperware party on Saturn and accidentally crash land on our grubby little globe instead. That, I believe, is the only plausible explanation for how these aliens, or 'cream-coloured trouser people' as I like to call them, have found their way among us.

I almost bumped into one the other day as I staggered down Walmgate with my enormous workbag in one hand (I swear my right arm is now a good six inches longer than the left) and a packet of Marks & Spencer's Percy Pigs clenched proprietarily in the other.

I, of course, was wearing my everyday work uniform of black trousers, black shirt, black leather jacket and boots, which were, erm, black.

Honestly, I open my wardrobe some days and it's like a gang of professional mourners has moved in there and is claiming squatters rights.

The alien, on the other hand, was wearing nothing black apart from her mascara, and even that was probably brown-black. She was wearing her compulsory cream trousers, which were flapping just millimetres above the filthy pavement, teamed rather daringly with a cream, sheer sweater, a cream cardigan, which looked suspiciously like cashmere, a dinky little cream bag and cream sandals on her perfect cream feet (as opposed to the distinctly blue feet the rest of us would have if we opted for peep-toe sandals in the middle of November).

Even her hair was creamy blonde, frosted with buttery streaks that almost certainly did not come out of a bottle from Tesco.

She was obviously a high-maintenance alien with a team of hair colourists, toe nail buffers and cashmere fluffers on hand 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

There is something about a person who covers themselves in impossibly impractical cream clothes that says "I'm special, you're not; don't bother me". Ordinary people just don't wear them - we couldn't afford the dry cleaning bills for a start.

Put me within 30 feet of a cream cashmere sweater and I automatically spill something; coffee, ink, the beans, whatever is closest to hand. It's like a pre-programmed Pavlovian reaction, only without the dogs.

For some, however, cream is kids' stuff. This master race of uber-aliens includes Liz Hurley, Tom Wolfe and Martin Bell (the most unlikely trio since Bananarama), who don't even try to hide their otherness anymore. For Tom and Martin, wearing white has become something of a gimmick, but I get the feeling that Liz is a true believer.

Whenever she has a day off from whatever the heck she does, Ms Hurley is inevitably to be found sashaying about in a pair of skin-tight white hipster trousers, possibly the most impractical item of clothing for the mum of a toddler that has ever been invented.

Her choice, which is akin to walking around with a sandwich board over her shoulders emblazoned with the words "I am considerably richer than you and can afford a new pair of white trousers every day for the rest of my life", is totally alien to anyone with at least one foot in the real world.

So next time you suspect a UFO has landed in York (as I'm sure they do from time to time), don't bother looking out for little green men.

Keep your eyes peeled for Liz Hurley and her cream-coloured trouser people instead.

Updated: 09:32 Monday, November 15, 2004