Hastings caressed his chin delicately, then stroked his own in a more manly manner, before musing, "D'you know what, Poirot, old fruit - every now and then we seem to slip into some alternative universe, where people seem to be sane, but actually are stark, raving bonkers - look around you here, and you'll see what I mean - there's someone peeling off a body suit and someone in love with a horse, and a horse on its third double vodka, and - I say, Poirot - who IS that absolutely spiffing gel over there?"