"Class, please use your stylus to write the correct answer on your tablet." Are these instructions from a toga-clad teacher to students in ancient Rome?

In fact, these words might be heard in an American classroom today. A "tablet" allows students to use the computer screen as a notepad, writing with a "stylus."

I love to see English clamber up to the attic, blow the dust off an old word, and spruce it up with a new definition. Both "tablet," once denoting a slab of stone, and "stylus," once meaning a sharp carving instrument, have been revived with 21st-century definitions.

Other tech terms giving new life to old words include "cookie" from "fortune cookie" because it contains an embedded message, and "Trojan horse" because it conceals a threat.

Until recently, the only "fob" I'd ever heard of was a watch fob — a short chain or strap attached to a pocket watch, such as those once carried by grandfathers and train conductors. But now, like my grandfather, I carry a fob wherever I go.

Am I into retro accessories? Hardly.

A few years ago, my school gave every faculty member a "fob" — a small plastic disc that functions as a high-tech key. Personally programmed for each teacher, this magic button opens the computerized locks on the classrooms, labs and offices needed by that teacher, but is maddeningly useless on rooms that are off limits.

(I say maddeningly because mine doesn't work on the computerized music lab with all those cool gadgets — the first room I tried.)

Denied access to the toy shop, I slink off to my computer for some heavy-duty "scrolling." No, I'm not unrolling long papyrus sheets covered with ancient writing, but simply roaming up and down through 32-page documents on my computer.

Just why I have 32-page documents on my computer I'm not sure, but I scroll through them anyway, even though they're about as exciting as the Dead Sea.

After a hard day of fobbing and scrolling, I sometimes stop at Target where the checkout clerk magically swoops a "wand" over my larger items — kitty litter, lawn chairs and that outdoor grill it took me two weeks to bolt together. Come to think of it, I wish the cashier had been able to assemble that grill with one swoop of her magic wand.

This isn't your fairy godmother's wand, of course, but a computerized device for reading the product's bar code. Nevertheless, if I ever see a cashier wave a wand over a purchaser's pumpkin, I'll still be hoping to see Cinderella's coach.

Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Connecticut, invites your language sightings. His new book, "Mark My Words," is available for $9.99 on Amazon.com. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via email to [email protected] or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 737 3rd Street, Hermosa Beach, CA 90254.

Photo credit: LoggaWiggler at Pixabay