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.