I'm a writer and I'm feeling like death, as you would too if you'd just flown...

I'm a writer and I'm feeling like death, as you would too if you'd just flown into Grand Rapids, Michigan at some ungodly hour of the morning only to discover that you can't get into your hotel room for another three hours. In fact it's enough just to have flown into Grand Rapids, Michigan. If you are a native of Grand Rapids, Michigan, then please assume that I am just kidding. Anyone else will surely realise that I am not.
Having nowhere else to go, I am standing up, leaning against a mantelpiece. Well, a kind of mantelpiece. I don't know what it is, in fact. It's made of brass and some kind of plastic and was probably drawn in by the architect after a nasty night on the town. That reminds me of another favourite piece of information: there is a large kink in the trans-Siberian railway because when the Czar {I don't know which Czar it was because I am not in my study at home I'm leaning against something shamefully ugly in Michigan and there are no books} decreed that the trans-Siberian railway should be built, he drew a line on a map with a ruler. The ruler had a nick in it.