I’m unable to decide if these trousers are highly amusing or chic

8pm. My husband and I are running inexcusably late for a dinner party; he’s half-in, half-out of a pair of crumpled trousers in one bedroom, while I’m half-in, half-out of a barely-worn pair in another.

“You make the starter, while I do my mascara,” I shout.

“I’ll shave, while you iron my trousers,” he says, appearing in front of me and staring down at his legs in dismay.