Yes, I might have wandered, but my heart truly belongs to Colonel Sanders

My friends, I am away from home and I am not well. I could argue that the intense experience of meeting Lithuania’s most distinguished writers as the mercury fell to -17C (1.4F) was the culprit, but it would not be true. It was my weak will, gifted to me by DNA (excuse number 1), which led me to disaster, in combination with the local brandy (2) and the giddy excitement of exposure to new people (3).

But really, it was curiosity. Who among us could glimpse a small bottle labelled “999” in a hotel minibar and resist?

Suffice to say it was well named. This morning, it is not the spirits in said minibar that are in danger, but its supplies of chocolate and soft, comforting fizzy drinks. Coca-Cola, thy name is morphine.

But a far better remedy lies directly opposite my billet. For even Vilnius is not safe from the Colonel’s attentions. What better cure than KFC’s Mighty Bucket for One (two pieces of original recipe chicken, two mini fillets, two wings, fries and a drink)?

The availability of salty, crispy goodness with a wallop of grease is a solace and even more so now that last week taught us that we must not take it for granted. For what is a celebrated fried chicken outlet without its breasts, its thighs, it Zingers? We cannot live by KFC’s famously average fries, corncobs, baked beans and that oddly vinegary, sweet, umami-before-its-time coleslaw alone. And, when the chicken failed to materialise after a switch in distributor, legions of us looked at our dinner plates and realised how swiftly we would replace our sorry pork chop/shepherd’s pie/lentil bake/cauliflower steak with a succulent wing or two.

There is something about an entirely survivable crisis that unites us. And KFC hit that particular nail on the head with its admirably direct and witty apologies – rearranging its initials into FCK and empathising with the customers who were not only denied their delicious meals but had, as the company said, gone out of their way in search of them. No two-piece box? You’ll live. But you might be quite grumpy.

In part, we returned the empathy. People joked that DHL had indeed attempted to make delivery but, finding the Colonel out, had pushed a card through the door and run away. Others suggested checking with a neighbour. In our contact-light world of online convenience, no-shows and the impotent rage they induce are a fact of daily life that we must all accommodate.

And there was also a hint of guilt. If Kentucky Fried Chicken is our long-suffering partner – familiar, reliable, easy – then we know we’re guilty of flirtation with others. Tennessee, we have made eyes at you at a party; Southern, we have played footsie under the table; Chick King, let us not even speak of that time we ravished each other after a few too many at the Christmas do. You were just in the right place at the right time; it didn’t mean a thing.

Yes, we all enjoy the recommendations of the Chicken Connoisseur, whose Youtube videos find him roaming the streets in search of the Pengest Munch; yes, we all know, thanks to the novelty grime track Junior Spesh, that Canning Town is the place to go if you’ve only got £1.50 in your pocket. But we will always come back to you and never more so than if there’s a long queue for Burger King (onion rings) at the M4’s Membury services.

It is his story to tell, but I am accompanied in the Baltics by a dear friend whose memories of KFC are tinged with regret. Why, he wondered, did he never sample the delights of the limited edition Double Down, in which the bun – the boring, worthy part of the meal in anyone’s book – was replaced by chicken fillets? What lay between them? Why, bacon, of course.

There’s a reason why people aren’t wailing in the streets as Jamie Oliver calls time on branches of his Italian restaurant, even if they’ve enjoyed his chicken under a brick. We didn’t take it to our heart and, more to the point, if we’re going to put on best bib and tucker and sit in a restaurant for our tea, we might as well go the whole hog and really posh it up. Kale and hazelnut salad for four quid? Jamie, have you met any British people?

Similarly, even in my little corner of north London, where we queue up to be fleeced, fancy chicken restaurants have been closing down. A high-concept kebab joint that recently announced itself in an area jam-packed with excellent, affordable, friendly ocakbasi places got a tart reception. We don’t want an idea for dinner. We want pitta.

And we want buckets. Buckets of tasty comfort that will not sneer at us, or surprise us, or change their essential nature. We want to know that we are not eating a kale salad. We want a night off from a skimpy fillet of sea bass perched on a bed of quinoa, a break from an authentic pasta dish that you can make with only three store-cupboard ingredients if the store cupboard that you don’t have is stocked with ingredients from the farmer’s market you deplore. Ina Garten, TV’s Barefoot Contessa, I love you so much that I even bought your recipe book filled with dishes you make for your husband – but surely even Jeffrey sometimes yearns to rip the skin off with his teeth?

Forgive me: the 999, which I now learn from closer scrutiny is a herbal-based liqueur, still has me in its grip. It’s time to rise from my sickbed and surrender myself to the tender embrace of Colonel Sanders and his secret recipe.