Look at you looking at this

"The trouble with you," Ted had said when I confronted him about his affair with my wife, "is that you're too predictable."
"No I'm not," I said.
"Yes you are," he said and put a self-satisfied smirk on his face, "I can predict everything about you, everything you say and do. No wonder your wife thinks you're a tedious prick."
I stuck a finger up my nose, hopped up and down on one leg and shouted: "feltch feltch feltch feltch feltch feltch!"
Then I said: "You didn't predict that did you?"
"Actually..." he said, then produced a sealed envelope, date-stamped three months earlier with an accompanying sworn affidavit by a serving high-court judge to certify that the document contained therein had been witnessed and sealed.
He opened the envelope, to reveal a statement which described word for word everything I was going to say that day. The description was so accurate it even included details of what I would be wearing, down to the flecks of seagull shit on my corduroys; and, of course, it described the hopping up and down and shouting feltch bit.
"Yeah," I said finally, "but at least I'm not a twat."
The smug look on his face suggested I'd lost the argument.