When I was 14, and still had the emotional capacity to become prostrate with rage at injustices, both real and imagined, I swore I would always be a Ms. I made my sister swear too. The logic of the feminist argument was unassailable: all men were Mr, regardless of their marital status - why should women not be accorded the same privacy? To mark them out in this way was a hangover from a time when a woman was owned by her husband, when her marital status was more important than anything else about her.
But we didn't know then what a freighted monosyllable Ms would become. Its widespread adoption by American and (as ever, to a slightly lesser extent) British feminists in the 70s and early 80s meant it quickly became inextricably linked to bra-burning, hairy-leggery extremism. It was ridiculed and reviled from the start, by men (which was expected) but also by too many "ordinary" (ie non-activist) women for it ever really to become part of common parlance and lose its stigma.
Now, although I wrestle briefly with my conscience every time I am confronted with a form which deems my marital status an issue of supreme importance, I tick the "Miss" box. I have a friend who does so because she dislikes what she refers to darkly (despite my protracted weeping at the phrase) as the "lesbian undertones" of Ms. But I do it because, well, because ticking Ms seems like making more of a statement about an issue that no longer rouses my ire or even my interest than is necessary or desirable. Or perhaps I just don't want to be reminded of my idealistic 14-year-old self, who would doubtless have made a bold stroke with an Amnesty International pen and theatrical flourish before heading off to do her stint at the nearest women's refuge.
Ah well. There are some still more pragmatic than I. Anna, a 28-year-old systems analyst in Manchester, says: "To be honest, I use Miss because I'm looking for a boyfriend and I want to advertise the fact that I am single. Why create the doubt when you don't want any to exist?" My sister says she uses Miss because it sounds younger and she is already being kept awake at night by the sound of time's winged chariot thundering up behind her. Hearing such sentiments from one's little sister is not the best tonic a sibling's nerves could ask for, of course, but I digress.
Others feel like it's not worth fighting a losing battle. Emma Jones, who teaches at a secondary school in south-east London says, "I started off calling myself Ms, because it's still on all the official cards and things I got when I was 16 and I thought, "Well, why not try and make the point?" But it's pointless - the kids just call you Miss anyway. They don't even bother with your surname most of the time."
But what happens when you get married? Miss is no longer really an option if you have even a passing interest in factual accuracy, so you must choose between Ms and Mrs. I personally can't imagine referring to myself as Mrs with a straight face, but that may be because the idea of being ready to settle down for a lifetime with one person still causes something deep within me to revolt and start battening down the hatches of my psyche to prevent internal meltdown. But anecdotal evidence from the eight million friends who have gaily tripped down the aisle over the past couple of years and gladly relinquished not just their Miss titles but their surnames too suggests that I am in the minority.
Perhaps I should have realised this the day Madonna, previously the ultimate icon of independence and self-definition, abandoned her pursuit of infinite variety and proclaimed via the woefully underused medium of the diamante-studded suit that she was now Mrs Guy Ritchie.
Some women change to Mrs for less romantic reasons. Mrs Glenn (née Miss Davies), a 30-year-old teacher in east London, changed her name and title when she got married two years ago. "I did it because, to be blunt, it gets me more respect from the parents at parents' evening andthe students when I'm in the classroom," she says. "The boys start to think of you more like their mum instead of someone they'd like to shag, and the girls look up to you more because all they want is a man and they know you've got one." She agrees it's depressing, but within the confines of a tough comprehensive school, she's willing to embrace anything that helps her keep the upper hand with her semi-feral charges.
The easiest way to avoid detonating this particularly heavily-mined area of political correctness, however, is to refuse to use anything. I have only tried this once - last week, when I was buying a new oven and could not, however hard I tried, envisage a situation in which knowing my marital status could be of vital importance to the local purveyor of white goods. I had to divulge the information in the end because the computer screen would not accept an unfilled field, but I intend to stick to my guns next time.
Until then, my sister and I will continue under the single soubriquet. It will at least serve us well in later years when we retire to live out our spinsterhoods in tweed and a crumbling Suffolk farmhouse, to become known far and wide as the Two Mad Miss Mangans.
· If you have strong views on this subject, email us at women@theguardian.com.