Now, I wasn’t going to tell you this but I have to be honest with you, even if this tale does underline my reputation for misplacing just about anything. Here goes.

As the flight from Madrid to Montevideo reached its cruising altitude and the fasten-seatbelts sign was switched off, I set about organising my quarters for the next 12 hours. Pen, notebook and headphones were lined up to use. Next, I needed to charge my phone. But as I picked it up, it leapt from my grasp like a runaway mouse and darted through a gap at the side of the seat. At first, I could just see it resting upright on a little ledge but with just one touch of my pinkie finger it skedaddled out of sight, off to be the Perse-iPhone of the aircraft’s underworld.

It only took a minute for a steward to come and see why I was scrambling on the floor like Gollum while shouting “my precious!” Taking in the gravity of the problem, he secured from his colleagues a torch and a pair of tongs usually used to take reheated chicken from the ovens in the galley kitchen. A gentleman of some considerable height, he lay on the floor to try and literally shine some light on the situation. He attempted a recumbent poking investigation with his tongs. However, as he stood up, he had a look on his face that, if he were a doctor about to give his diagnosis, would make you think that you should get your affairs in order.

He reassured me, however, that the issue would now be reported to the captain who would message ahead to Montevideo. The plane would not be allowed to make its return journey until my phone was freed from its subterranean lair. I suddenly wondered how watertight my travel insurance was because it would be hard to get the cost of a grounded airplane through on expenses.

Yet my steward was not the sort of person who shied from a challenge. Every 20 minutes or so I would spot him back lying on the floor next to me and sporting yet another potential extraction tool. One time he came with a litter picker but it was too fat to wedge under the seat. Later, I stirred from a nap to find him waggling a coat hanger beneath my perch. Sadly, another failure. There was an attempt at pulling up the carpet with the aid of some teaspoons. I tried to assist but just buckled the cutlery and, anyway, he seemed reluctant to accept the assistance of someone who had already caused enough problems for one flight.

By now all the crew seemed to have heard the story of the man in 4A and soon a more seasoned steward arrived to offer his services. He confidently flipped up the cushioning on my seat and dived into the void below by dangling over the backrest, while his tall colleague held on to his calves to prevent him vanishing into the underworld. My issue was by now capturing the attention of all around – passengers pausing their movies. I tried to look nonchalant. But still, no phone.

Next, with the aid of a screwdriver, the senior steward removed part of the seat’s undercarriage. He located a runaway water bottle, a pair of men’s reading glasses, a supermarket-worth of mini biscuits and chocolates and a mariachi band that had vanished on a flight to Mexico City some months ago. Yet still, no phone.

Then I had my first bright idea. I had signed in to the wifi before take-off, so if my travelling companion and co-worker Rebecca phoned me, perhaps the screen would light up, revealing where it was secreted under the tangle of cables and machinery. It worked. My phone sent out an illuminated rescue signal.

The steward surgeons set to work with new hope in their hearts while I stood in the aisle offering words of encouragement and occasional updates to the cabin.

One gent wrapped gaffer tape, sticky side out, around his hand in a bid to make the phone attach itself to his fingers. But he was a little too big to get far enough under the seat. Step forward Rebecca. Under she went. “I can see it!” she exclaimed. “What I need now is a pen,” she added like a heart surgeon asking for a scalpel. A moment later, “I’ve got it!”

And out she backed, phone held aloft. There were high-fives between the four of us. Hugs too. We were as elated as rescuers who managed to bring a lost miner back to the earth’s surface. “We were a team!” said the more senior steward, before looking at Rebecca and conceding, “But you scored the goal.” All saw me less as the star striker and more as an aged cheerleader. Sadly, I had no pompoms to hand.

So next time you settle into an airline seat, remember that beneath you lies a miniature archaeological dig. Also, never let go of your phone, unless you want to cause an engineering incident at 40,000 feet.

For more of Andrew’s columns, click here.

When James Lee McQuown started running along Seoul’s Han river some 15 years ago, pedestrians, speed-walkers and casual joggers were his main company. In recent years, however, the South Korean-American model, DJ and co-founder of Private Road Running Club (PRRC) has seen running grow into a cultural phenomenon. “At any time of day, regardless of the weather, there are people out there running,” he says. “When Koreans do something, they really commit to doing it well.”

The Korea Times reports that the number of citizens who run for fun has reached 10 million, an amount that has roughly doubled since 2015. The number of marathons is increasing too, while running tourism is on the rise and spending at speciality shops has grown 216 per cent over the past two years. The running wave has also sparked debate about the use of public space, leading the Seoul Metropolitan Government to promote “runtiquette” – a portmanteau of “running” and “etiquette” – and local municipalities to enact measures to reduce disruption to daily life.

What Korean running brands should you know? And how are other companies getting involved? Read the full story here.

As its name suggests, ready-to-wear fashion house Ami Paris is proud of its roots in the French capital. Its newest flagship, which is the label’s third shop in the city, extends across three storeys of a Haussmannian townhouse on the Place des Victoires in the 2nd arrondissement (writes Grace Charlton). On the ground floor, visitors can shop for Ami Paris’s take on French style  – think denim sets, crew-neck jumpers and leather goods – while upstairs is an events space.

The new shop is an invitation to explore the world of Ami Paris’s founder and creative director, Alexandre Mattiussi. Concrete walls are complemented by custom dark-oak furniture and plush velvet sofas, plus chairs by Robert Mallet-Stevens. The artworks that dot the space, selected by Mattiussi, include paintings by Finnish painter Anna Tuori and sculptures by Paris-based Hugo Guerin. It has become conventional wisdom that brands hoping to lure shoppers through their doors need to offer more than just well-stocked rails. Ami Paris takes this idea a step further, using artworks and vintage design pieces to convey its story and aesthetic sensibilities.
amiparis.com

Last week, while catching up with a friend under the low lights of an east London restaurant, she suddenly announced that she had split up with her partner (writes Rory Jones). A four-year relationship, burned away with the quick intensity of flashpaper. I asked why. She played the hits: lack of communication, different life stages, et cetera. But then she added, “He also started consulting ChatGPT about everything, as though I had no answers or opinions.”

We managed to laugh but a lingering confusion plagued my journey home. Are people actually prioritising AI over their partners? Apparently, yes: it’s happening and the numbers are increasing. In Los Angeles, AI-related “virtual infidelity” is now cited as a contributing factor in three to five divorce cases a week.

I’m not an AI user and lament the idea that it is being used to cut corners in the creative arts – particularly writing. But when did some people start turning to chatbots instead of those around them to answer their everyday questions? What makes matters worse is that ultimately unnecessary musings such as “Why is the sky blue?”, “What’s the difference between a mongoose and a meerkat?” and “Where actually is Amarillo?” are incredibly resource-draining. AI data centres are consuming water at unprecedented scales. A recent Morgan Stanley report forecasts that they will drive annual water consumption to more than a trillion litres by 2028, an 11-fold increase on 2024 figures. It’s worth wondering how many prompts are genuinely productive.

ChatGPT and others might have instant access to a breadth of knowledge that your partner doesn’t. But my advice? Take them to dinner. Look them in the eyes. Ask them your pointless questions instead. Let them make up an answer and believe whatever they say, right or wrong. You might just save the planet as a result. Or, at least, your relationship.

Further reading:
AI is not our enemy. That’s why you should still say ‘please’ to Alexa

AI won’t replace jobs humans are good at. Now people just need to prove their worth

As AI continues to serve up slop, legacy media is back on the menu

Thom Sweeney has opened its first flagship on Manhattan’s Upper East Side (writes Jack Simpson). Across French limestone floors, the two-storey space at 761 Madison Avenue houses made-to-measure and ready-to-wear showrooms, as well as tailoring workshops. 

On the ground-floor is Sol’s, a club and bar named after hotelier Sol Kerzner, signalling the brand’s commitment to top-notch hospitality. Throughout Thom Sweeney’s new digs, you’ll find the works of British photographer Dafydd Jones – renowned for The Sleepers, his series documenting 1980s partygoers dozing after too much revelry. Ideal viewing after a stiff drink at Sol’s.