Multiple Hopkins and a Withdrawn Penis

The week started with a brutal morning, a violation of my comfortable Western priviledges. I was left alone for six and a half hours, starting at 4:30am. I was stuck, dealing with somnambulist passengers and chirpy airport staff, while being unable to drink coffee or even urinate. I only mention this because it lead to my perception of my environment becoming very distorted (I never realised that I rely on coffee to be a psychic anchor as well as a stimulant).
Every old man that approached me suddenly became Sir Anthony Hopkins. He was everywhere, but I first noticed when an elderly man asked me a question in a soft Welsh accent. I looked up, and it was Hannibal, asking where Boots the Chemist is situated.
Good God, I told myself. Stay calm. This man played Richard Nixon, try to be civil but not too friendly.
My mental instruction worked, and I was able to point him in the right direction. I was satisfied with the encounter, believing it to be reality. That was until I was faced with another old man. He too had the accent and the soft twinkling features of Hopkins. At first I thought it was the same man, but not even a Knight of the Realm can change clothes that fast. I greeted him and answered his question with the same civil nonchalance as I used with Hopkins #1.
Once again I carried on my day, thinking about the little nothings that drift around my head, but certainly not dwelling on the Double Hopkins phenomenon.
Eventually, a colleague came to relieve me and I was able to go to the toilet. It was only in this hideous crucible that I began to suspect that my mind was drifting into another reality.
There, at the urinal, was a third Hopkins. He was pissing with force and I stood with mouth agape. After he had finished he turned and began walking. His "hog" was still withdrawn and he was shaking it with vigour, as if to say: "Enjoy this with a nice Chianti!" At this stage I went through the cliches, the eye rubbing, the pinching - the works. Alas, the exposed Hopkins remained, shaking his penis with thumb and forefinger positioned for maximum flail. I fled the scene without voiding my bladder, and as I moved through the departure lounge I shielded my eyes from one Sir Tony after another.
Addiction is a funny thing. I bought a coffee immediately after this hideous spectacle, and drank it with a hungry desperation. All of the Hopkins around me gradually faded back to their natural forms. It was a rare moment of psychic chaos and I admit that I was astoundingly comfortable with all except for the penis waving (and that was only because I was trying to hide my laughter from the man).