The under bit of an arm socket is not the most enjoyable contemplative subject for most normal people, but sometimes you just can't avoid those bits of people you'd rather not know about.

It was rush hour in Paris on Bank Holiday Monday and my sister and I were making an abortive attempt to get some last minute shopping before we headed home the next day.

Having given up trying to negotiate through the hordes of people cramming into ever smaller shops, we decided to descend to the bowels of the earth once again and onto the underground train.

They were five deep on the platform and as the metro pulled into the station, my already aching toes started to constrict with apprehension. It was not just packed, but dangerously stuffed to the gills. We threw a knowing look at each other . . . sibling shorthand for a shared realisation that getting on this train meant steeling our resolve and physically preparing to push like hell.

My recollection of squeezing onto the train is hazy, but one of us managed to get on first and sort of manhandled the other on board. I found two awkwardly positioned spots to place my feet on the floor and contorted my body to fit between all of the others in the demented game of twister before all eyes turned to the poor man who got on last.

He had already been mashed in the doors, which was probably at least a little painful, but then, his body prevented the doors from closing and the train couldn't move off. Those beeps that sound when the metro wants to tunnel its way a little further along the track sounded ever more urgent and impatient.

The man who was causing the problem turned slightly to the left and slightly to the right as hundreds of eyes bored into his. He was like a trapped animal, facing the now bad tempered and baying crowd.

Eventually, and probably by squeezing his buttocks together by an extra, crucial half an inch, the last man on the train allowed the doors to close and our journey began.

Now I had time to take stock of my surroundings. My sister had the good fortune to get near one of those metal bars that commuters use to steady themselves, but I hadn't had such luck.

I was relying on the proximity of the other passengers to help me withstand the motion of the train and keep me upright, but I quickly realised that this was a mistake.

Every time the speeding carriage changed velocity, I landed on the lap of a very old, very grumpy, French woman who had bagged the last seat with the dexterity of an International Musical Chairs champion.

When I did manage to remain in a standing position, it was mostly down to my manhandling of my sister's coat. I hope we look like sisters, otherwise the sight of me one moment sitting on an elderly woman and then clinging like a maniac to the back of a pink wool coat with both hands must have seemed a touch odd.

The aforementioned armpit came into view once I had established a reasonable form of equilibrium. The only place I could put my face was firmly under the arm of a teenage boy, who was hanging onto a metal bar while managing to cling onto a girl, whom I assumed was his girlfriend.

Everything I learned about fear of small places raced through my brain, searching for any reference to the potential long term psychological damage of being restrained under an armpit for any length of time. My hypochondriac musings were cut short by the distraction of the owner of the oxter engaging in noisily kissing his girlfriend in the vicinity of my ear.

Apart from the minority who live close to Luas and Dart lines, we don't have these kinds of experiences in Irish commuter land.

But who is better off, those who spend hours every day alone and unfettered by close proximity to others in their cars on Irish roads or the Parisians, for whom the armpits of humankind are a daily reality?