According to our old pal the Oxford English Dictionary, the first recorded use of twiddling appeared circa 1547 in J. Redford's Moral Play of Wit & Science: "As for her syngyng, pypyng, and fydlyng, what unthryftynes therin is twydlyng?" Twiddling emerges from the marriage of twisting and fiddling, and an alternate spelling (tweedling) suggests that the patron saints of twiddling ought to be Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
No relation to tiddlywinks, a game requiring facility with winks and squidgers and the ability to squop. Tiddlywinks derives from British slang and may be related to both kiddlywink and pillywink, a word that ought to apply to tiddlywinks played with fluffy pink pillows but most definitely does not. Pillywinks are instruments of torture also known as thumbscrews.
While twiddling appears in the sixteenth century, thumb-twiddling is first recorded much later, in the 1930s. So when I twiddle away my morning by exploring the more esoteric uses of twiddling, I am following a long tradition.
I probably shouldn't say this out loud where any of my overworked colleagues can hear me, but my skills are being underutilized this semester. Few classes, low enrollments, few papers to grade, few colleagues interested in attending workshops or training events--whatever the reasons, I keep finding myself with time on my hands. I haven't quite been reduced to thumb-twiddling, but yesterday I finally submitted an essay to a journal and today I'm thinking about writing a letter of recommendation that isn't due until November.
And it looks like things won't be much better next semester. If current enrollment trends continue, I'll finish my career teaching negative 27 students and grading no papers at all.
But I'll think about that tomorrow. Today I sit and twiddle my thumbs and wonder where I can locate some winks and squidgers and find someone to teach me to squop.
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