THE columnists’ cabal has several rules. They include always hitting the word count, never discussing two ideas when one is more than enough, and never, ever going in early on any discussion/meditation on an anniversary or festive date. It’s a sort of antipathy towards premature excitation.

In the manner of those writing to newspapers about the first Christmas displays in a supermarket (usually mid August), commissioning editors hold the view that there is time and place for dewy-eyed festive comment and it is as late as possible.

Columnists thus tend to postpone the festive column until the desperate days when the unprepared are laying siege to garage shops in search of something, anything to place under the tree.

The staples of this fare for columns are no stranger to this witterer. There are two distinct categories: Ye Olde Christmas and Christmas Has Lost Its Meaning. They can be mixed together, of course, but focus on one placates the editor who has the 12 days of Christmas labour to complete in under six hours and with a staff as diminished as Boris Johnson’s reputation after a speech to the CBI.

The truth, of course, is that Christmas has a range of meanings, peculiar to each individual. And that Ye Olde Christmas has a charm but not one that would survive modern imperatives.

An apple, orange and silver thruppeny in the stocking and a selection box, kaleidoscope, compendium of games (to be shared by all children) on the couch might not satisfy the appetites of the 21st century wean, certainly not the ones brought up in a routine affluence the blessed can take for granted.

Similarly, the highlight of the evening would hardly pass muster now. The gathering round a TV set with a screen the size of a postage stamp to watch Morecambe and Wise might not send the children into a sugar-crazed frenzy now.

This year, then, I am going to eschew the Christmas column. I am getting in early with the Advent column.

It seems to me that festive or religious dates have always had a meaning that can be detached from the dogma of religion or the rites of tradition. Advent has always been the best example of that.

It is a time that holds a profound significance to me. There is the past when it was a matter of counting down days to that silver thruppeny or (and there is a God!) a pair of adidas football boots. But there is the present when it entails a less material expectation.

It is a time of preparation. The Christian may use it primarily as a vehicle to prepare for the birth of Jesus Christ and his ultimate message of resurrection. I do this in a state of questioning and fluctuating faith.

But this leads to another examination that is shared by mates who do not share my beliefs. One of my pals used to accompany me on retreats to a monastery in advents past. We met and talked with people who had little or no faith in life after death or any supernatural power.

There was no conflict, only an empathy spurred by intrigue.

Why were we all here? And I mean Pluscarden Abbey, rather than Planet Earth, though both are valid questions.

The answers were personal but broadly similar. Yes, there was an examination of the purpose of life and our role in it. But there was also the substantial message of preparation.

This was a time to take stock. This was a time to evaluate what was working in life and what was not. It was an opportunity to set aside time for reflection.

Donnie, a Buddhist, found the best moments for this occurred during the monks’ compline which routinely offers praise and gratitude to a God that holds no validity for him.

Eddie, the atheist, was fascinated by the drama of Latin Mass but found his most valuable moments in the walks in the woods beside the monastery and in the laughter of the monks while listening to a self-serving biography of a man of power of means being read aloud at lunchtime.

There is a mischievous softness in that, he would say. It reminded him of the power of ego in the book’s subject and how frivolous it all was and how we (Donnie, Eddie and certainly me) were gripped in its relentless hold.

There is always an irony in that we were taking ourselves away from ourselves merely to dive deeper into ourselves. But the plunge was and is sincere even if it can remain stubbornly self-serving.

The purpose of preparation was always achieved, no matter how incomplete it was and is.

So what are we preparing for? And why will it continue this year although a monastery for obvious reasons remains out of bounds?

It is simple. The lesson of life is that it always changes. The reality is that I am always mired in difficulties, large or small. My fecklessness and fallibility means that I need to examine, consider and proceed.

I need to prepare for both the unexpected and the expected. The former has invaded my life mercilessly this year. The latter will end it. All this, of course, is the human experience.

The exercises of Advent will help me accept or change. I may even be prepared for the demands of Christmas Day. Though I have checked the local garage’s opening times on Christmas Eve, which is a sort of preparation in itself.