When I was a young wee thing -- hailing as I did from an articulate family, but not being much of a reader myself -- I spent my formative years believing that tenterhooks was, in fact, 'tender hooks'.I had never seen the word written down, had only ever heard it spoken. It seemed such a luridly perfect description of a very peculiar and particular state of waiting (and wanting): of a sharp uneasiness mixed with nervous, excited tension. Of being strung up and strung out, but in the most deliciously delicate way possible. It was so descriptive, and apt, and honest: I am on tender hooks.
When I later discovered that it was actually tenterhooks, I was surprised and (secretly) rather disappointed. Granted, it was interesting to learn something new and unexpected: to see that this word had its origins in something grounded utterly in the prosaic. It thrilled me to learn something fresh, to see how and where language originated, to have an appreciation of how language evolves and changes over time, so that a word still has meaning, even though it's original context is forgotten. This interested me no end.
But the romance was lost. And this saddened me.
Tender hooks.
The gentle barbs were no more.
