Voitures de collection 1/43

Description : Photo 1 (début en haut de gauche a droite) 1- Taxi Toyota Crown 2- Mercedes Benz Class A 3- Renault 8 1998 4- Taxi Renault 8 (jaune) 5- Buick 1950 Cabriolet 6- Ford Comete 7- Fiat 1400 Roma 8- Peugeot 403 9- Taxi Renault 12 10- VW Combi + Remorque (jaune) 11- Mercedes Benz 190SL + Remorque (Rouge) 12- Porsche 356B Coupe + Remorque 13- Citroen 15 Six 14- Porsche 911 15- VW Combi (vert/blanc) 16- Mini (rouge) 17- Alpine Renault A310 18- Panhard Dyna Z 19- Alpine Berlinette 20- Fiat 600 Jolly 21- Ford Thunderbird (jaune) 22- Renault 4L 1964 23- Renault Dauphine 24- Simca Aronde Grand Large 25- Seat 1500/1800 26- Citroen Ami 6 27- Citroen 2 CV 6 28- Peugeot 203 29- Renault 4 CV 30- Jeep Surrey 31- AC Cobra 427 32- Peugeot 203 (bleu) 33- Peugeot 203 Taxi (gris) 34- Jaguar XJ 12 35- Mercedes 200D 36- 1958 Edsel Citation 37- Ford Fairlane 38- Volvo 144 39- Facel Vega 2 – 1962 40- Ford Fordor 1947 41- Citroen DS 19 Cabriolet 1961 42- Citroen 11 43- Holden FE 44- Volkswagen Beetle 45- Citroen Tradition 11 Légère 1944 46- Fiat 300 Multipla 47- Peugeot 404 48- Renault Colorale 49- Austin FX4 London Taxi 50- Traction 11 BL Fourgonnette 51- Citroen 11 Taxi (bleu/beige) 52- Mercedes 200D 53- Citroen Tradition Cabriolet 22 CV 54- Mercedes 300 SL1954 55- Renault 4L 56- Ford Mustang 1964 57- Ford A 58- Mercedes 170V Taxi (noir/beige) Photo 2 (début en haut de gauche a droite) 59- Mercedes W115 LWB 60- Citroen SM Presidentielle 61- Mercedes 180 62- Hindustan Ambassador 63- 55’ Ford Fairlane Crown Victoria Used Under License 64- Citroen Traction 11 CV Familliale 1934 65- Peugeot 404 66- Tuk-Tuk 67- Mercedes 180 68- Land Rover Defender 69- Toyota Land Cruiser 70- Duesenberg J 71- Peugeot 203 72- Checker 73- Jaguar E Cabriolet Scale 1/38 74- Jeepey Manilla 75- Citroen DS de gaulle 1963 76- Porsche 911 Speedster 77- Taxi de la Marne 78- Renault Saviem 79- Delage D8_120 1939 80- Tatra 603 81- Volkswagen Beetle 82- Chevrolet Caprice 83- Bugatti Royale Coupe de Ville 1928 84- Renault Reinastella 85- BMW Z4 86- Volkswagen Coccinelle 1950 87- Toyota Crown (rouge) 88- VW Beetle (gris) 89- Taxi Mercedes 200D 90- Jaguar SS-100 91- Peugeot 202 Michelin 92- Citroen Cabriolet DS 19 1963 93- Porsche Carrera RS 94- Opel Speedster 2001 95- VW Beetle (rouge) 96- BMW 325i 97- Taxi Volga M21 98- Taxi Citroen DS 21 99- Duesenberg J (bleu/noir) 100- Austin FX4 London Taxi 101- Citroen C4F 1930 Hachette 102- Camion Welly 1/36 Shop at home Lighton Market 103- Lincoln Continental 104- Bajaj (orange) Prix : Selon modèle A retirer sur Anzin (59410) ou envoi possible en sup. Me contacter de préférence par mail en me précisant les numéros qui vous intéressent. Merci

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Bag of Bones

Auteur : Stephen King Vendu : 5 euros (tres bon état) Biographie : Stephen King est l'auteur de plus de cinquante livres, tous best-sellers d'entre eux à travers le monde. Parmi ses plus récentes sont les romans La Tour Sombre, Cell, Du Hearts Buick 8, Everything's Eventual, en Atlantide, La Petite Fille qui aimait Tom Gordon, et Sac d'os. Son livre documentaire acclamé, sur l'écriture, a également été un best-seller. Il est le récipiendaire de la Médaille nationale de 2003 Réservez Fondation pour contribution exceptionnelle aux lettres américaines. Il vit à Bangor, Maine, avec son épouse, la romancière Tabitha King. Revue de presse : A writer of excellence . . . King is one of the most fertile storytellers of the modern novel (Sunday Times) Accomplished . . . unputdownable . . . his mesmerising best (Observer) Splendid entertainment . . . Stephen King is one of those natural storytellers . . . getting hooked is easy (Express) An incredibly gifted writer, whose writing is so fluid you often forget that you're reading (Guardian) Extrait : Chapter 1 On a very hot day in August of 1994, my wife told me she was going down to the Derry Rite Aid to pick up a refill on her sinus medicine prescription -- this is stuff you can buy over the counter these days, I believe. I'd finished my writing for the day and offered to pick it up for her. She said thanks, but she wanted to get a piece of fish at the supermarket next door anyway; two birds with one stone and all of that. She blew a kiss at me off the palm of her hand and went out. The next time I saw her, she was on TV. That's how you identify the dead here in Derry -- no walking down a subterranean corridor with green tiles on the walls and long fluorescent bars overhead, no naked body rolling out of a chilly drawer on casters; you just go into an office marked PRIVATE and look at a TV screen and say yep or nope. The Rite Aid and the Shopwell are less than a mile from our house, in a little neighborhood strip mall which also supports a video store, a used-book store named Spread It Around (they do a very brisk business in my old paperbacks), a Radio Shack, and a Fast Foto. It's on Up-Mile Hill, at the intersection of Witcham and Jackson. She parked in front of Blockbuster Video, went into the drugstore, and did business with Mr. Joe Wyzer, who was the druggist in those days; he has since moved on to the Rite Aid in Bangor. At the checkout she picked up one of those little chocolates with marshmallow inside, this one in the shape of a mouse. I found it later, in her purse. I unwrapped it and ate it myself, sitting at the kitchen table with the contents of her red handbag spread out in front of me, and it was like taking Communion. When it was gone except for the taste of chocolate on my tongue and in my throat, I burst into tears. I sat there in the litter of her Kleenex and makeup and keys and half-finished rolls of Certs and cried with my hands over my eyes, the way a kid cries. The sinus inhaler was in a Rite Aid bag. It had cost twelve dollars and eighteen cents. There was something else in the bag, too -- an item which had cost twenty-two-fifty. I looked at this other item for a long time, seeing it but not understanding it. I was surprised, maybe even stunned, but the idea that Johanna Arlen Noonan might have been leading another life, one I knew nothing about, never crossed my mind. Not then. Jo left the register, walked out into the bright, hammering sun again, swapping her regular glasses for her prescription sunglasses as she did, and just as she stepped from beneath the drugstore's slight overhang (I am imagining a little here, I suppose, crossing over into the country of the novelist a little, but not by much; only by inches, and you can trust me on that), there was that shrewish howl of locked tires on pavement that means there's going to be either an accident or a very close call. This time it happened -- the sort of accident which happened at that stupid X-shaped intersection at least once a week, it seemed. A 1989 Toyota was pulling out of the shopping-center parking lot and turning left onto Jackson Street. Behind the wheel was Mrs. Esther Easterling of Barrett's Orchards. She was accompanied by her friend Mrs. Irene Deorsey, also of Barrett's Orchards, who had shopped the video store without finding anything she wanted to rent. Too much violence, Irene said. Both women were cigarette widows. Esther could hardly have missed the orange Public Works dump truck coming down the hill; although she denied this to the police, to the newspaper, and to me when I talked to her some two months later, I think it likely that she just forgot to look. As my own mother (another cigarette widow) used to say, "The two most common ailments of the elderly are arthritis and forgetfulness. They can be held responsible for neither." Driving the Public Works truck was William Fraker, of Old Cape. Mr. Fraker was thirty-eight years old on the day of my wife's death, driving with his shirt off and thinking how badly he wanted a cool shower and a cold beer, not necessarily in that order. He and three other men had spent eight hours putting down asphalt patch out on the Harris Avenue Extension near the airport, a hot job on a hot day, and Bill Fraker said yeah, he might have been going a little too fast -- maybe forty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. He was eager to get back to the garage, sign off on the truck, and get behind the wheel of his own F-150, which had air conditioning. Also, the dump truck's brakes, while good enough to pass inspection, were a long way from tip-top condition. Fraker hit them as soon as he saw the Toyota pull out in front of him (he hit his horn, as well), but it was too late. He heard screaming tires -- his own, and Esther's as she belatedly realized her danger -- and saw her face for just a moment. "That was the worst part, somehow," he told me as we sat on his porch, drinking beers -- it was October by then, and although the sun was warm on our faces, we were both wearing sweaters. "You know how high up you sit in one of those dump trucks?" I nodded. "Well, she was looking up to see me -- craning up, you'd say -- and the sun was full in her face. I could see how old she was. I remember thinking, 'Holy shit, she's gonna break like glass if I can't stop.' But old people are tough, more often than not. They can surprise you. I mean, look at how it turned out, both those old biddies still alive, and your wife..." He stopped then, bright red color dashing into his cheeks, making him look like a boy who has been laughed at in the schoolyard by girls who have noticed his fly is unzipped. It was comical, but if I'd smiled, it only would have confused him. "Mr. Noonan, I'm sorry. My mouth just sort of ran away with me." "It's all right," I told him. "I'm over the worst of it, anyway." That was a lie, but it put us back on track. "Anyway," he said, "we hit. There was a loud bang, and a crumping sound when the driver's side of the car caved in. Breaking glass, too. I was thrown against the wheel hard enough so I couldn't draw a breath without it hurting for a week or more, and I had a big bruise right here." He drew an arc on his chest just below the collarbones. "I banged my head on the windshield hard enough to crack the glass, but all I got up there was a little purple knob...no bleeding, not even a headache. My wife says I've just got a naturally thick skull. I saw the woman driving the Toyota, Mrs. Easterling, thrown across the console between the front bucket seats. Then we were finally stopped, all tangled together in the middle of the street, and I got out to see how bad they were. I tell you, I expected to find them both dead." Neither of them was dead, neither of them was even unconscious, although Mrs. Easterling had three broken ribs and a dislocated hip. Mrs. Deorsey, who had been a seat away from the impact, suffered a concussion when she rapped her head on her window. That was all; she was "treated and released at Home Hospital," as the Derry News always puts it in such cases. My wife, the former Johanna Arlen of Malden, Massachusetts, saw it all from where she stood outside the drugstore, with her purse slung over her shoulder and her prescription bag in one hand. Like Bill Fraker, she must have thought the occupants of the Toyota were either dead or seriously hurt. The sound of the collision had been a hollow, authoritative bang which rolled through the hot afternoon air like a bowling ball down an alley. The sound of breaking glass edged it like jagged lace. The two vehicles were tangled violently together in the middle of Jackson Street, the dirty orange truck looming over the pale-blue import like a bullying parent over a cowering child. Johanna began to sprint across the parking lot toward the street. Others were doing the same all around her. One of them, Miss Jill Dunbarry, had been window-shopping at Radio Shack when the accident occurred. She said she thought she remembered running past Johanna -- at least she was pretty sure she remembered someone in yellow slacks -- but she couldn't be sure. By then, Mrs. Easterling was screaming that she was hurt, they were both hurt, wouldn't somebody help her and her friend Irene. Halfway across the parking lot, near a little cluster of newspaper dispensers, my wife fell down. Her purse-strap stayed over her shoulder, but her prescription bag slipped from her hand, and the sinus inhaler slid halfway out. The other item stayed put. No one noticed her lying there by the newspaper dispensers; everyone was focused on the tangled vehicles, the screaming women, the spreading puddle of water and antifreeze from the Public Works truck's ruptured radiator. ("That's gas!" the clerk from Fast Foto shouted to anyone who would listen. "That's gas, watch out she don't blow, fellas!") ... BOSY

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Porsche 911 s targa 119.000 km rouge annee 1976

Très belle Porsche 911 S Targa 2.7 du 1976, complète, mécaniquement et extérieurement en très bon état, intérieurement parfaite. Suspensions et freins refaits par le Centre Porsche de Sanremo. Véhicule d'importance historique mais, au même temps, moderne et utilisables tous les jours. Élégante mais sportive. Plaques monégasques donc facile à immatriculer en France ou Italie. La voiture est visible à Monaco. Amazing Porsche 911 S Targa 2.7 of 1976 with a great red colour, interior and exterior are very good shape and mechanical sound properly. Suspension and brakes changed and engine fully controlled by official Porsche center in Sanremo (all the receipts available). Car of historical interest but, at same time, can be easily used on a daily basis. Monaco plates therefore easy to register in Italy or France. The car can be inspected in monaco. Bellissima Porsche 911 S Targa 2.7 del 1976, completa meccanicamente ed esternamente in ottimo stato, internamente perfetta. Sospensioni, freni rifatti e motore controllato dal Centro Porsche di Sanremo. Veicolo di importanza storica ma, allo stesso tempo, moderno e utilizzabile tutti i giorni. Elegante ma sportiva. Targata a Monaco e quindi facile da immatricolare in Italia o Francia L'auto è visibile a Monaco. Graziano +33 6 27805882 Francesco +39 346 6088038

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Score : 4.9/5 - 64