When I played American football, back in the reckless days of my youth, friends and family who filled up my English life at the time had two things to say about it.

What's wrong with rugby?

And aren't you a bit on the small side for American football?

The benefit of hindsight reveals sharply that they made two good points.

There was, and still is, nothing whatsoever wrong with rugby (and I should not have been tempted away from the mud, blood and cauliflower ears by the glamor of cheerleaders and far-fetched Burt Reynolds movies).

And, on the second point too, the aforementioned family and friends hit the nail so firmly on the head it must have been knocked senseless - I was indeed a little on the small side. Standing around 6 feet and weighing a paltry 11 stone (70kg), I was about average in height but more beanpole than beefcake in the girth department.

I was big enough for a small-town team of American footballing no-hopers out to have fun on a Sunday afternoon but, in all honesty, I was better suited to snooker or cricket than the thunderingly aggressive world of American football.

Over the years, I have made up for my slow start in the weight department, piling on the pounds thanks to an unhealthy interest in best bitter, fish and chips and sitting.

So, when I last measured myself against my brethren back in the Old Country, I remained around average in height but was finally a little on the chubby side when it came to girth. Hence, I was surprised, as a lifelong "average" when I first clambered aboard the subway here in Beijing and realized that, while no giant, I was not exactly average either.

I looked up and down the subway car, over the heads of most of the people standing cheek-to-cheek on the crowded train, and realized I had become a little taller.

I was wondering a few weeks ago whether this change might yield any benefits. Maybe, I thought, I could moonlight as a nightclub bouncer or develop an alter ego as a kind stranger who picks things off high shelves for little old ladies.

As I pondered my options, Beijing was hit by a cold snap.

Veteran expats here at China Daily, who have lived through a Beijing winter or two, held forth on the little tricks that might help one avoid frozen pipes. Phrases such as "thermal underwear" were bandied about.

While thermal long-johns sounded a little on the extreme side, I did not want to be the only one among my peers with frozen appendages so I went shopping.

I did not have to shop for long because I soon found a neighborhood store with a display of thermal undergarments.

The trouble was the shelves had been rifled through as if by burglars who were late for a very important date. There was precious little left, just a few disheveled pairs of long-johns lurking in the dark corners.

I approached without much hope and picked up the first pair. It was XXXL. I held it up against my body. Just right! I grabbed the next pair. XXXL as well. I grabbed it, and the other three pairs languishing on the near-empty shelf and took all five to the checkout.

The cashier told me all the popular sizes had sold out hours ago. Only the XXXL remained - as unpopular and unwanted as a Bee Gees song at a punk rock festival.

It wasn't much but I had reaped a benefit from my new status as a taller-than-average person. I left the store feeling warm inside with the knowledge that I would feel warm on the outside as well, all winter long.