As locations for fond farewells go, Bristol Bus Station is not one which springs instantly to mind.

Yet this week, with a heavy heart, I drove our two oldest friends there and watched them climb aboard a National Express coach bound for Heathrow Airport.

Actually, they were going a tad further than that, upping sticks completely.

New Zealand was their final destination. The emotional tug of an only daughter and two gorgeous grand-daughters meant staying here for the rest of their lives was never going to be an option.

If I am honest, I felt very selfish about their leaving. I felt as though I had been robbed of two prized possessions.

Both of them have been an integral part of my family's life, and, specifically, my own life since I was a schoolboy. I went to school with one of them, worked as a teenage cub reporter with the other, and kicked down the social barricades of the Swinging Sixties with them both.

With one, I endured the petty rules and regulations of a dilapidated old grammar school and, when let off the leash at weekends, packed in more than a few eventful parties. We even fell backwards together through a French window at one of them.

With my journalist pal I endured the highs and lows of life on a rural weekly newspaper. We saw valuable hours of both our young lives evaporate through countless nights attending interminable parish council debates, taking thousands of names at country funerals, and interviewing dozens of golden wedding celebrants who all claimed to have "never had a cross word in their lives".

Across the years they have been there for us and likewise, we have been there for them, through good times and bad. We have watched our children grow up as friends, like ourselves, and stood shoulder to shoulder with each other at those inevitable moments in each and everyone's life that no one ever wants to happen.

And although it's only September, I cannot let them go to the other side of the world without mentioning Christmas. Because if there was one area of our lives where we digressed, diverted, split asunder, or whatever, it was the festive season.

In the Davey household we truly embrace Christmas. A tree adorned with so many lights, glitters and decorations that you can't see any of the pine needles. We go bonkers over giving each other presents, too. In short, we celebrate. Always have done.

My journo chum never saw it the same way. Festive trappings were never his scene. You always thought he was mumbling "Bah, humbug!" under his breath when December 25 came around. Yet, inexplicably, given his oft-stated dislike of seasonal happenings, he always came calling on Christmas Eve when we held a party. And we always embarrassed him with a present – a totally rubbish one, but a present all the same.

But it's funny how the arrival of grandchildren can alter lives. Not too long ago, when we were together, he told me he was a changed man. A bit like old Ebenezer in A Christmas Carol, he'd finally acknowledged that Christmas needed celebrating.

So, when it's December and their new lakeside home is bathed in glorious summer sunshine in New Zealand, he says he's definitely going to have a tree this year. And lights. And loads of presents stuffed beneath it. I have told him I shall need photographic proof and eyewitness accounts confirming his new role as Santa.

But all that's a few months hence. For the time being I'm still coming to terms with the fact that neither of them are just a few miles down the road any more.

I confess I got rather emotional as the coach carrying them to the bosom of their family swung out into the afternoon Bristol traffic and headed for the M32. As I was a bit misty-eyed, I'm not sure, but I could have sworn, a bloke in a bright red coat with a big white beard was sitting in the back seat.