Mr. Gristle - Tales for the Nursery

Mr. Gristle had a problem.
He did not much like the sound of people eating.
Whenever he heard the sound of somebody munching on crunchy packets of crisps, or slurping on a soft and moist banana he felt absolutely sick and outraged. He was so completely and utterly disgusted by the sounds of people eating that he couldn’t sit for more than five minutes in a restaurant before having to politely but swiftly excuse himself and hurry to the exit.
“Jowls!” he’d mutter.
“Mandibles!” he’d sigh.
“Mastication!” he’d exclaim.
It was on just such an occasion when Mr. Gristle decided that he should really get something done about the problem.
“I simply must get something done about this problem of mine.” he thought, as he stormed away from his surprised uncle-in-law, with whom he was meant to have been eating sandwiches with in a particularly expensive café in London but just could not bear for one second more the sound of brie and grapes squelching into whole-wheat bread between the offenders teeth and tongue.
“But what,” he mused, “but what exactly can one do? Everybody eats! Perhaps I should become a hermit, and live in complete and utter isolation. On an island!” he smirked to himself at his clever idea.
But a frown creased across his brow, “Not good enough” he thought aloud, much to the surprise of some nearby pigeons, “Not nearly good enough. For I cannot even stomach my own ingestion!”
Mr. Gristle thought and thought about what to do. He walked through busy streets, glaring at Americans pushing chocolates into their gaping mouths, he scowled at little girls chewing on dolly mixtures outside sweet shops, he put his fingers in his ears whilst pacing though Harrods Food Hall.
“Harrods” he said.
“Americans!” he said a little louder.
“Dolly mixture!” he shouted, which made a nearby baby start to cry.
As Mr. Gristle paced and thought, and glared and stalked, and shouted and screamed, it seemed to him that everything was food being eaten, that every smile and set of teeth were mocking him, biting and chewing and ruminating at him. Even in London Zoo, where he seemed to have arrived, everything was eating. Monkeys thundering though great piles of peanuts. Zebras snorting into hay! The whole world had become one big mouth to Mr. Gristle, one big mouth full of saliva and chewed up sweets and pieces of pastry and crumbs, and teeth, and tongues.
“Go away!” he shouted, as he started to run.
“I can’t see you!” he shouted as he shut his eyes and ran past a startled keeper on his lunch-break. He heard the sounds of tigers growling into some meaty carcass.
“I can’t hear you!” he bellowed and he stuffed his fingers into his ears.
But because he ran with his eyes tightly shut, and with his fingers in his ears, because he ran like that he was completely unaware of the shouts around him, of the warning cries.
He was aware of the wall he tripped on. He was aware of the hard landing. He was then aware of the incredibly sharp and painful teeth as they bit down extremely hard upon his belly.
As his eyes shot open, Mr. Gristle suddenly saw that all his problems were over, and as his fingers fell from his ears, Mr. Gristle heard, with some relief, the snap and crack of his bones as he was loudly eaten by a lion.