Andy Richardson: Give a little when it matters the most

She is a picture of contentment; a recently-born baby who has not a care in the world. She's smiling to say 'thank you'.

E was the unknowing but no-doubt-grateful recipient of a gift that will make her mum's – and therefore her – life a teeny weeny bit happier than it might otherwise be.

And on a beautifully designed postcard, she's smiling a smile that says: "Thanks, dude." And having seen her selfless and natural smile, I'm beaming right back thinking: "It's a pleasure."

I skipped Christmas. It's a long and tortuous story. But in 2015 I decided to give the day of feasting and gift-exchanging a rain check. Instead, I ran 10 miles round the streets of Shrewsbury and exorcised more demons than you'd find in a magical fantasy story. It was bliss.

I've never been that good with convention – and I can see 28 years worth of bosses raising a knowing eyebrow now. Rules are for measuring stuff, rather than observing. I've always thought we should do things when the moment is right, rather than when convention says we ought to do them.

Okay, so my homespun philosophy doesn't always work. It would be no good, for instance, rocking up to get married (for the third time, in my sorry case) and telling the registrar that you don't fancy exchanging vows or rings that day. Nor would it be any good ordering a beef burger at a vegan café, buying drinks for members of AA or offering doughnuts to Patricia the instructor at Slimmer's World – although I did once have a chocolatier friend who ended up doing a roaring trade by selling handmade caramels after Patricia had gone home. Bless her and her entrepreneurial spirit. She targeted a perfect market and after weighing time was done, her friends got happy over emulsified sugar, butter and cream.

But there are times when rules are a complete waste of time. And the exchange of gifts – or words, or hugs or anything relating to matters of the heart – is one of them.

Over cinnamon buns this morning – no, it's not a euphemism – my friend showed me what the postie had brought her. Shoebox-sized, it contained five small postcards that nourished, inspired and suggested ways to de-stress, find calm, get creative, relax and simply have fun. Her Buddy Box – no, I'm not on commission, but if anybody wants to send me one, it's the usual address – was a feast for the senses.

Her friend had sent it to her – just because. It was the equivalent of a brilliantly warm and soothing hug.

There were no anniversaries in sight, no special occasions or reasons for celebration. It was sent to remind her that she's loved and enriches the lives of others. And that's reason enough.

I've always been a non-conformist when it comes to presents. DVD players have been given on the 34th day of whenever, jewellery has been bought while popping for a sandwich, meals have been booked on spontaneous Saturdays and presents that say 'you're ace' have been exchanged when the recipient has least expected them.

A friend recently scored a home run when he bought me a picture that has my favourite poem written out in the single word that is the title – 'If' by Rudyard Kipling.

He knew it was my favourite verse and rather than waiting until some unwritten rule decreed that he should present it, he said: "There you go, dude. Enjoy."

It will find a place in the pile of bricks that I call home and when I pass it I'll be reminded of his kindness and empathy, or his ability to connect with my dark heart and do just the right thing at just the right time. And that, in essence, is what gift-giving is all about.

It's the same with giving compliments; like telling a woman she looks beautiful or a mate that he can win – when everybody else is saying the opposite.

Given freely and without agenda; it's all about being honest and in the moment, of telling the truth and not worrying about the consequences.

In this era of digitised diaries and funky apps, there are no longer any excuses for forgetting birthdays, anniversaries and special occasions. And yet, with one notable exception, I manage to forget every single one. If you held a gun to my head and asked me to tell you my mum or dad's birthday, I'd say: "Pull the trigger." I know which month, but that's as good as I get.

But each time I see them, they know just how much I love them. And so do my friends. Tokens of appreciation come when the moment is right – not when the diary dictates. Because my motto is simple: Do it because you mean it – not because you're supposed to.