**April Fool’s Fiasco**
Cheerful and lively Emily couldn’t go a day without a joke. At school, she was always cracking people up, and the lads admired her for it. At uni, she joined the comedy society. Even her boyfriends had to have a sense of humour—otherwise, what was the point?
“Em, you change blokes more often than your socks,” her uni mate Sophie remarked one day. “One week it’s Tom, then Jack, and now you’re chatting up Liam?”
“Soph, you know me—if a lad can’t take a joke, he’s not for me. Tom barely cracked a smile, and Jack? Show him a finger and he’d wet himself laughing. Too much,” Emily explained.
“You’ll be searching a long time before you find someone who ticks every box,” Sophie smirked.
“I just like a laugh, that’s all. Life’s too short to be serious all the time,” Emily insisted.
“But life isn’t *all* jokes, Em. I’d rather have a steady sort myself—all that messing about? No thanks,” Sophie said, dead serious.
“Fair enough. I like lads who don’t just joke *with* me but can laugh at themselves, too. Positivity’s everything. Just as long as the humour doesn’t cross the line.”
April Fool’s Day was Emily’s favourite—one day a year when *anything* could be a prank, and no one was allowed to take offence. At uni and later at her office job, she was always scheming. And she could sniff out a prank before it even landed—sharp as a tack, that one.
She’d had her share of boyfriends. Tom was a proper bore—not a funny bone in him—so she dropped him quick. Jack started off alright, chuckling at her gags and binging comedy shows together, but slowly she realised half her jokes sailed right over his head. They fizzled out.
Then came Oliver. *This one’s a keeper*, she thought. Someone to share a laugh *and* a life with. So on April 1st, she hid behind the corner of their flat, jumped out with a ghastly face, and shrieked, “Boo!” Oliver didn’t flinch. Still, she waited—surely he’d retaliate?
Oddly, he didn’t. But two days later, while she was balancing two mugs of coffee and a chocolate bar on a tray, he tossed a rubber snake at her feet—realistic, even wriggling. She shrieked, the tray clattered, coffee *everywhere*.
“Oliver, what the *hell*?! That’s not funny—I could’ve scalded myself!”
He just shrugged. “Just returning the favour. Didn’t think you’d *actually* freak out.”
They bickered but made up. A month later, though, he upped the ante—borrowed a *real* (harmless) snake from a mate and slung it her way as she sipped tea before work. The thing slithered toward her. She *screamed*, tea sloshing down her blouse, scrambling onto a chair.
Oliver howled with laughter, scooping the snake into a box. “Bloody hell, Em, it’s not poisonous! You *love* pranks—thought you’d appreciate it!”
“*Appreciate* it?! Take your snake and *leave*. And I’m deadly serious this time.”
That was that. Emily adored jokes—just not ones that risked her sanity (or safety). At work, she was the queen of pranks. Colleagues *tried* to get her back, but she was too quick—stone-faced one second, cracking them up the next.
Except Max. Their back-and-forth was legendary. She’d stroll up, deadpan, spin some nonsense, and off he’d dash to check. Never held a grudge, though. And every April 1st, they’d try to outdo each other.
To Emily, Max was just a mate. The banter was too good to muddy with romance.
Then came *the* April Fool’s. She baked apple pies—save for Max’s, loaded with salt and pepper. “Fancy a cuppa, Max? Even brought pies!” she chirped, sliding his onto his desk before handing out the *real* ones.
“Coffee’s grand—I’ll make my own, *thanks*,” he chuckled, eyeing the pie suspiciously. But midway through his brew, he absentmindedly took a bite—then *another*—before bolting to the loo, gagging.
“Emily, you *swine*!” he gasped later. “How’d I let my guard down? *Today* of all days?”
The office roared. Emily was chuffed—but tense. Max *always* retaliated.
Sure enough, near quitting time, she nipped to the kitchen for tea. Max followed. “Ah, tea break? Fancy an apple?” He grabbed a knife, slicing one—then suddenly yelped, “*OW!* Cut myself! Em, pass us a towel!”
Unknown to Max, Emily *hated* blood—even fake injuries made her queasy. She scrambled for a towel, ripped off a wad, grabbed his left arm—only for it to *detach* and thud to the floor. His sleeve hung empty.
Her vision swam, the ceiling spun, and down she went.
When she came to, Max was *pale*, hovering over her. “Em, love—you alright? Christ, I didn’t think—”
She blinked, saw his *very much intact* arm, and weakly laughed. “Well… prank backfired, didn’t it?”
The office erupted. Max, though, was mortified. “I’m *so* sorry. How was I to know you’d faint over a bloody plastic arm?!”
Once steady, she waved him off. “Not your fault. Just me being daft.”
Max, though, wouldn’t let it go—fussed over her, brewed tea, even scrounged up a chocolate bar. “I’ll never live this down,” he muttered.
Emily studied him then—really *looked*. Proper mate, that one. Kind. *Funny*. And *handsome*, now she noticed…
“Max,” she said slowly, “you’re all right, you know that?”
Turns out, he *more* than liked her. A year later, they had the registrar in stitches at their wedding. Their house? Full of laughter.
Moral: Life’s better when you’ve someone to share the silences *and* the silliness with.
