AS you get older it’s funny how your attitude to life changes, not so much attitude but reaction to things and events, I guess.

Something that a few years, or maybe weeks ago would not have mattered does suddenly seem to be important and vice-versa.

I know I wrote not so long ago about Dylan Thomas and how a few years ago I would never have given him the time of day.

This week I suddenly got very, not melancholy, but something like that, and I am not sure why.

There was an advert on TV, and it showed lots of different people heading home for Christmas.

It was strange as I wasn’t really watching it.

Then I sat doing a bit of work on the old laptop and my wife, Mandi, who is a very good pianist, started playing some carols and the like on the keyboard in the other room, and for some reason I suddenly felt… I don’t know, strange, reflective, I guess. Ah well, forgive the ramblings of an old fool.

Talking of Christmas, one of my favourite events is on next Saturday when the Worcester Male Voice Choir have their Christmas concert at Pershore Abbey.

I always find this a very special night, so if you can get along the details are at worcestermalevoicechoir.org.uk/.

I was out running this week, OK fast walking if you like, and was chugging over the Carrington Bridge on the A4440.

The traffic had slowed to a crawl up to the Ketch Island, even slower than me, when a voice called out, “Bradley you idiot, grow old gracefully like us.”

The window of a car was down and I slowed and stooped and sat there was a guy, who I went to school with, who shall remain nameless. Now I suspect it is some 10 years since I have seen him, at New Road I suspect.

He pulled over and never one to refuse a breather I gasped out a welcome to him and a question, “So where have you been?”

“In jail” says he. I laughed and then realised he wasn’t joking, and it seems he got in with a bad lot and managed to spend six years in prison. He made it clear it was a place he was not going back to.

We chatted for a few more minutes, shook hands and parted, and as I jogged back down the Bath Road it made me think of people I had gone to school with, some of whom I never saw from the day we left Christopher Whitehead College, and some I see often.

One became a professional footballer, one became a very respected shopkeeper, one became a priest, another ran a transport company, a few are dead and one got a job on radio, but he’s an idiot.

Perhaps that’s why I got that strange feeling, or it could have been indigestion.

● Dave Bradley is the BBC Hereford & Worcester sports correspondent