Among my best-loved poems is The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot. I first read this work when I was 17 as a means of closing the quality gap with the ridiculously erudite daughter of an English Literature professor who was miles out of my league.

Even though I was young, this gloomy interior monologue concerning spiritual ennui, unrequited longing and the terror of approaching mortality spoke to me. It need hardly be said that this wee princess remained out of reach. And I would often find myself marooned in many kitchens at parties, a fate not helped by my increasing fascination with the occult novels of Denis Wheatley. “Have you ever read The Devil Rides Out?” See ya …

In recent years, I’ve returned often to Eliot’s great literary nocturne as I try to navigate a terrain that seems increasingly to have become treacherous. A poignant verse in Prufrock is this one.

I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

I wonder too, if Eliot – were he alive today – might also have attempted to make poetic sense of this world.

Forget the fancy football: showcase the authentic Scottish experience

Inside Scotland's 2am World Cup fan zone at Glasgow OVO Hydro

Steve Clarke showed class by quitting - and put our leaders to shame

The slow and painful decline of historic Dumbarton is a tragic waste

I grow old … I grow old … I........

© Herald Scotland