An unhealthy addiction to Twiglets

This season I am mostly missing Twiglets.
While it can hardly be said that the wheat-based snack shaped like small twigs was a fashion accessory back in Britain, now I am parted from Twiglets I miss my addiction to their tangy knobliness.
Driving through London, through the jarring stops and starts and roadways that suddenly turn into bus lanes, I needed something edgy. Twiglets provided that high. Before I knew it a large bag had been emptied and my hand and gear shift were brown with their residue.
At times like this napkins were a plus as Twiglet-Pants can a job interview wreck.
Americans never understood the attraction. My wife didn't see the point of Marmite, so understandably didn't see the point of a crunchy snack dipped in them.
Of course, those us who have been lucky enough to enter the inner sanctum of Twiglet-world know there's no Marmite, although there's yeast and vegetable extract.
So while connoisseurs have short shift with the Mr. Bean episode in which he runs out of Twiglets and breaks off tree branches and covers them with Marmite, we can sympathize.
When I emigrated to the US I didn't realize the Twiglet cravings would take over my life. Brits who have gone Stateside fail to tell you about such weighty matters.
But as you board the plane for the final time they give you that grave, knowing look as if they can see you five years down the line as an anxious, Twiglet-deprived wreck.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. There's a British shop in Hampton that sells Twiglets, although a small packet costs about six times more than it would in Blighty.
Do I succumb or will this merely fuel an addiction that will end up with me homeless and destitute in a hood somewhere near you?