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Goodbyes are hard. Our beloved navy-blue Volvo is 14 years old and makes a noise over the right rear wheel that only my ears can detect.

"What clunk?" David asks.

Fluttering a small list at the mechanic, we ask if he could check over everything. When we call several days later to see how Bluey is, the news is bleak. More things have been added to her sick list and she's terminal.

Her radiator is leaking. Her exhaust manifold is corroded. Her poor little drive shaft boots need replacing as well as her tie rods and ball joints, and, of course, there's the clunk. The bill will be almost larger than what we paid for our first Volvo in 1971.

"No," we say. "There comes a point when we have to say goodbye." And so begins the hunt for a new car.

We were married for two days when I realized that David and I shop differently. When I need something I go to the mall, and if I like what I see out comes my credit card. Done.

David is a stats man. He needs facts, lots of them, whether he's shopping for deck lumber or binoculars. His computer screen is constantly flicking from site to site. "See this," he says. "Read this part, too."

His first step is to the library to retrieve the latest edition of Consumer Reports, his bible. Then he sharpens five pencils, irons out his graph paper and begins. There are waves of silence from the den until he has a good grasp of all the possibilities.

Observing this religious

exercise can make a spouse's quick-twitch fibres go into seizure. Therefore I came up with our marriage preserver. The Rule: "You go and do all the preliminary stuff, all the investigating, all the puzzling out and when you have emptied your pencil sharpener of all the filings and have downsized your list to two, get in touch with me."

But this time, consumed with grief for our departed Volvo, I simply forgot the rule. "We need a car. No hunkering in the den. Let's get going."

At this bad economic time, we start with no idea what we are looking for. If cars are going to become more environmentally friendly, maybe we shouldn't be putting a lot of money into a high-end auto that will become a dinosaur. Should we lease so we can walk away at the end of four years? Does it have lumbar support? Do my golf clubs fit in it?

We decide on an import, as the top-rated vehicles of the types we were considering were all imports. Every day we test drive two or three cars and listen to the spiel. We bring home glossy brochures.

The first week ends. We take the weekend off to clear our heads, get away from the stress. "No talking about the C.A.R. word."

Monday morning we are out bright and early, a fresh start. I want to eliminate vehicles that don't meet my requirements. David wants to keep them in focus. We test drive them again, this time on the highway, and return to the dealership to meet the salesman's hopeful expectation that we are going to sign on the line. "Gotta crunch some numbers," David says.

I am beginning to feel sorry for these people. I want to slip them a note on the sly, pouring out my sympathy and commending their patience. I want to tell them that I am as frustrated as they are but I am a survivor of 40 years, and this is only two weeks of their lives. If it were left to me to buy a car by myself I would now have at least four new vehicles in my garage.

Tuesday we narrow it down to two cars and I come home and drink three glasses of wine. Two for the lucky surviving cars on the list and one for the poor salesman who feebly said: "Sure. I'm here tonight until 8. Of course you can take it for a drive to check the headlights."

Wednesday "we" crunch numbers all day. We have no artistry for bargaining. Rather than come across as aggressive we either pay what the price tag says or we walk away. Now we wonder if we should ask them to throw in four snow tires on rims as a tiny signing bonus. Should we buy the car with 0-per-cent financing or the one with a longer warranty?

"Look at this printout," David muses. "Gets me thinking about residual value."

By noon I am willing to forgo lumbar support to keep my head from spinning off. I issue the ultimatum: "I can't do this any more. Tomorrow is the last day."

"But wait," he says, holding up a picture of a sleek SUV. "Here's one with a 2.7-litre engine instead of the 3.3."

I steam out of the room. "Where you going?" he calls.

"To Vegas," I yell. "It would be much easier to just win a car."

Thursday dawns sunny. We have finally made a decision - a CUV. David has his briefcase. We are amazed when the dealer agrees to the snow tires and afterward we congratulate ourselves heartily.

"Heck," David says. "Not that it usually does me any good but I'm wearing my get-lucky underwear."

Susan Borrowman lives in

Sydenham, Ont.

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