Justine Cullen
Mar 9, 2026 – 5.00am
Let’s call my seatmate Irene. I’m not usually friendly on a flight, but Irene and I were wearing the same On sneakers and when you’re both looking down, feet barely 20 centimetres apart, that’s a weird thing not to acknowledge.
When I pulled out my phone to ask ChatGPT something inane that I probably could’ve used my own brain for (but why bother), I heard Irene make a sort of snorting sound. “Sorry,” she said. “I just really hate ChatGPT.” And with that, she was off. Her husband – let’s call him Rob – does not hate ChatGPT. In fact, Irene told me, he appears to have formed something bordering on emotional intimacy with it. It started harmlessly: search queries, household logistics. Then he gave it a name: Cathy.
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