"Oi, thunder thighs ..." came the all-too-familiar heckle.

A few metres along the road a woman was frantically trying to pull down the hem of her floral sundress to cover her legs as a group of teenage boys cackled and leered from a souped-up Corsa. As the traffic lights changed they screeched off, leaving the woman crestfallen.

It’s a scenario I’m well versed in. My thighs have never been of the slender variety. Childhood gymnastics and swimming shaped them. A post-pub kebab here and there added girth. Most recently running and cycling have sculpted them into sturdy specimens that the seams of most trousers baulk at.

In a world where the miniscule thighs of lollipop-headed celebrities are so often hailed as the ideal, the sight of Beyonce proudly parading her show stopping Amazonian pins at Glastonbury was a welcome one.

Nike ran an ad campaign a few years ago which championed the athletic prowess of so-called thunder thighs, declaring: “Strong, toned and muscular. Though unwelcome in the petite section, they are cheered on in marathons.” It’s a sentiment I wholeheartedly applaud. I may not be able to get a pair of skinny jeans higher than my knees, but I would never swap my hefty thighs for a daintier version. They are testament to some of my proudest achievements.

Their robustness has powered me through more than 500 miles of runs. They have out-squatted an entire rugby team in a pub challenge and are perfectly designed for balancing a tray on while eating in front of the telly. They make ascending stairs a breeze and cycling long distances a joy.

When I’m older these thunder thighs will take me to the post office to collect my pension, then home again in time for Bargain Hunt.

Embrace your thunder thighs -- I intend to.