When I was much younger, a single line in a novel by Milan Kundera stuck with me. He described a beloved pet pig as walking “like a heavy-thighed woman in high heels”.

I was at an age when novels changed my life (I may still be that age!).

This line warned me, loved as I might one day be, I should never, ever wear high heels, lest I look like a pig. And so I didn’t.

I’m not saying I shuffled through adulthood in flats. I had a few pairs of shoes with a modest and apparently ladylike heel.

But nothing high, nothing that might cause a wobble or a sway. I was tall enough anyway, and my thighs – well – heavy was a fair assessment.

I learned my novel lesson and steered clear, thinking superior thoughts about sore toes, bunions and backache. Who needs high heels, anyway?

I hoped my appeal lay elsewhere. Certainly I wasn’t going to draw attention to my all-too-obvious flaws.

Then I met a man, a very tall man, who is 6’10” in a good pair of heels. That’s 2.1m tall, in case you’re tempted to check.

No, he didn’t wear them on our first date. I did though.

I found a pair of wedges I thought I could walk in and I wobbled down the quayside at the Waterfront, trying to look like I did this every day. No one was fooled – but he was smitten, a little, by the effort.

He watched me walk towards him, and in those high heels, I took the first steps towards something I had never expected.

What could it be? After all, I had never expected to sashay down the quay like a piglet, had I? Even more surprising was starting a relationship with a Man Who Loves Heels (A Lot).

Our new relationship energy spiked because my closet was a blank slate. I owned not a single pair of truly high heels.

So we could go shopping together – I never knew I liked shopping! — but it’s true, even on a bad day, when your clothes don’t seem to fit right, your shoes and your earrings do.

This man loved heels the way I loved…well, more than I loved anything, I think. Except for books.

He loved heels the way I loved books. He gave me shoes, I reciprocated with novels. The shoes moved me in ways that the novels (I hoped) were moving him.

Very soon I learned that he loved to look at high heeled shoes, and loved to wear them himself even more. This is a tricky situation. It’s hard to find women’s size 9 stilettos.

But with diligent application and some online assistance, we’ve found them.

When he puts his shoes on, he changes from the quiet and unassuming man he is to a dazzling creature with legs that go on further than forever.

He walks with pride. Women are always surprised and a bit delighted to see him. They ask him where he buys his shoes; they swap stories and tips.

He doesn’t need to fetch the step ladder to change light bulbs. Sometimes he puts them on to work away quietly at his desk, just for the fun and the feel of it.

And for me? I still wear heels far less often than my husband does. He is glorious, glamorous, and admired.

I adore that confidence that comes when he slips or buckles or zips on a pair and straightens up to his full, self-assured height.

Even more, I adore that he trusts me and feels safe enough to do it. I get to be a woman with outrageous arm-candy at my side.

And finally I’ve realised Kundera’s truth: pigs walk like very, very sexy humans in high heels.