Apparently ‘buy-to-let’ is the new rage in New Zealand. My brother who lives in Auckland called to tell me that he was seriously considering buying a lot of properties and letting them out on rent.
“Prices are cheap now,” he said. “For 300,000 New Zealand dollars, you get a decent three or four bedroom house. That’s just £100,000 to you Brits. The rental income will pay off our mortgage and prices are rising so rapidly, you are assured of a good capital gain return in a few years.”
“Can UK residents buy in New Zealand?” I asked, immediately pricking up at the thought that those who missed the boat and could not become property millionaires in the UK, may still be able to catch up in New Zealand.
“Yes of course,” replied my brother. “I know many UK families who have bought dozens of buy-to-let properties here.”
But hold on – all is not paved with gold.
Interest rates in New Zealand are quite high – nearly 8%.
But house prices are still so low in New Zealand that a normal three-bed house for £300,000 in the UK can be exchanged for a farm with 20 acres of land, a large mansion and a few stables and barns (all for the same price).
“A lot of people just buy these farms here, plant grape vines, and export tonnes of grapes every year,” concluded my brother. “Easy money while you sit and chill.”
Who says the grass is not greener on the other side?
Thursday 25 January 2007
Whose turn to chill out?
No amount of cajoling could convince my son that I wanted to see the News on TV.
He was right in the middle of the 60-minute evening slot his strict mother had allocated him every day (30 minutes for Maggie and the Big Beast and another 30 for Ruby and Max).
Apparently both of these were big hits with children of his age.
My blissful ignorance of how important programmes of this ilk were to the child population of this country had no effect on my son.
“It’s my turn daddy and not yours,” he said in all the seriousness a four-year old could muster. “After me, it is Grandma’s turn to watch her Hindi serial and then its Grandad’s turn. You go to your study and work on your computer.”
I guess that about said it all.
My four year son had taught me a lesson indeed.
I needed to spend less time every evening after work, locked up in my study, working for the whole world, and more time relaxing with my family, which was my whole world.
Will I succeed?
Only time will tell.
He was right in the middle of the 60-minute evening slot his strict mother had allocated him every day (30 minutes for Maggie and the Big Beast and another 30 for Ruby and Max).
Apparently both of these were big hits with children of his age.
My blissful ignorance of how important programmes of this ilk were to the child population of this country had no effect on my son.
“It’s my turn daddy and not yours,” he said in all the seriousness a four-year old could muster. “After me, it is Grandma’s turn to watch her Hindi serial and then its Grandad’s turn. You go to your study and work on your computer.”
I guess that about said it all.
My four year son had taught me a lesson indeed.
I needed to spend less time every evening after work, locked up in my study, working for the whole world, and more time relaxing with my family, which was my whole world.
Will I succeed?
Only time will tell.
Saturday 20 January 2007
Woes of a Sunday traveller
My wife Deepali and I were driving to a meeting organised by the South Indian Association, when I got a call from the BBC who wanted to interview me on News 24 over the Shilpa Shetty controversy.
"Could we have you at the studio at 8 PM?" suggested a friendly producer from the News Desk.
I looked at my wife to check if this was OK with her. After all, we had been planning to have dinner at that exact moment suggested by the friendly BBC producer, Daniel, in a restaurant in Kingsbury. I sighed and asked Daniel, "Could we not do it later?"
"9 PM is fine, though not ideal," came the reply.
But my wife had other ideas.
"I don't think we can eat so quickly before half-past eight," she barked in an expressionless manner. "When have we ordered and finished our meal in an hour in a restaraunt? You'd better do your interview first. We can eat in peace after you come back."
Bowing down to the impeccable logic of the woman of the house, I asked the BBC producer to arrange a cab for me from the Church of Ascension in Preston Road, where I was attending the South Indian Society meeting.
At the meeting, one of the Committee Members looked at me imploringly and said, "Could you not join the Committee this year please?"
I smiled and shook my head as best as I could. "No, I really can't. The Hindu Forum of Britain takes up all my spare time."
"You can at least advise us on key issues," she continued with a big smile.
"Yes of course - as long as I don't have to attend meetings," I smiled back.
Daniel from the BBC had promised me I would have a cab pick me up at 7.20 PM from the Church of Ascension Hall. I promptly excused myself at 7.30 PM to check if the cab had arrived. Not a sign..
I called Daniel who gave me a number for the cab company.
"He is only a mile away and will be with you in two minutes sir," said a helpful lady on the line after checking my name and a reference number Daniel had given me.
The two minutes ticked away and became ten, and twenty...and yet there was no sign of the cab at all. I rang Daniel again.
"The cab is nearly twenty minutes late isn't it?" he confirmed. "I shall ring the cab company straight away."
A minute after I spoke to Daniel, the cab finally drew up.
"You are twenty minutes late," I told the cab driver and immediately felt that the tone of my voice could have been less accusatory.
"Not my fault mate," snapped back the driver. "I was in Heathrow when they asked me to do this job, and I had to drive through some hard traffic."
I felt sorry I had snapped at the cab driver and decided to make amends.
"Yes of course, it probably was not your fault. How long will it take to get to White City and the Television Centre?"
The cab driver softened immediately. By the time I left the cab at the BBC Television Centre in White City, he and I had been having a raging conversation about the politics of Bangladesh (which was where he had originally come from).
At the BBC interview, I made various comments about Shilpa Shetty, Jade Goody and Big Brother. After the interview, I was escorted back by another cab to a restaurant where my wife and son were waiting.
After a hearty meal, when we did finally reach home, I suddenly remembered that I had to be in Bolton by 11.30 AM the next day for a consultation meeting with the Hindus of the north of England.
"Bolton?" said my wife in surprise. "How on earth are you getting there so early? It takes three to four hours to travel from home to Bolton."
I checked the internet for train timings and was jolted out of my gentle Saturday reverie.
I had travelled the London-Manchester route by Virgin trains many times on weekdays. Bolton was only 30 minutes from Manchester, and I had thought I could leave home at 7.00 AM to reach Bolton by 10.30 AM, well in time for the meeting at 11.00 AM.
But I had not reckoned with that dreaded British institution called the "Sunday timetable".
Trains and buses run to normal times on weekdays, and most Saturdays. On Sundays however, there always was a reduced service.
Sunday, after all, is a day that very few British people like to travel. It is a day for staying at home with family. Only a few abnormal souls like me undertake to do Sunday travel.
I discovered in dismayed silence, that the first train out of Watford Junction to Manchester Piccadilly was not at 7.00 AM, but at 8.53 AM. The train would only take me to Bolton by 1.00 PM, about 30 minutes after the meeting actually finished.
I couldn't believe that I had actually forgotten all about the dreaded Sunday Timetable. There was no way I could get to the Bolton meeting on time.
Then I remembered that my PA had actually offered to book my tickets for this journey. In some misplaced feeling of chivalry, I had gently brushed her suggestion aside and told her, rather proudly, "Don't worry Rani. You are quite busy today, so I'll try and book my ticket myself. I'll just walk up to the ticket counter at the train station and book the ticket before the journey. It's a simple ticket and I can manage it very well on my own."
I knew I would have to tell her on Monday that I jad completely failed to manage my tickets on my own without her help. I could almost imagine her chuckle with glee to learn of my own incompetence in doing what she does so well.
The woes of a Sunday traveller in Britain can fill an epic novel.
"Could we have you at the studio at 8 PM?" suggested a friendly producer from the News Desk.
I looked at my wife to check if this was OK with her. After all, we had been planning to have dinner at that exact moment suggested by the friendly BBC producer, Daniel, in a restaurant in Kingsbury. I sighed and asked Daniel, "Could we not do it later?"
"9 PM is fine, though not ideal," came the reply.
But my wife had other ideas.
"I don't think we can eat so quickly before half-past eight," she barked in an expressionless manner. "When have we ordered and finished our meal in an hour in a restaraunt? You'd better do your interview first. We can eat in peace after you come back."
Bowing down to the impeccable logic of the woman of the house, I asked the BBC producer to arrange a cab for me from the Church of Ascension in Preston Road, where I was attending the South Indian Society meeting.
At the meeting, one of the Committee Members looked at me imploringly and said, "Could you not join the Committee this year please?"
I smiled and shook my head as best as I could. "No, I really can't. The Hindu Forum of Britain takes up all my spare time."
"You can at least advise us on key issues," she continued with a big smile.
"Yes of course - as long as I don't have to attend meetings," I smiled back.
Daniel from the BBC had promised me I would have a cab pick me up at 7.20 PM from the Church of Ascension Hall. I promptly excused myself at 7.30 PM to check if the cab had arrived. Not a sign..
I called Daniel who gave me a number for the cab company.
"He is only a mile away and will be with you in two minutes sir," said a helpful lady on the line after checking my name and a reference number Daniel had given me.
The two minutes ticked away and became ten, and twenty...and yet there was no sign of the cab at all. I rang Daniel again.
"The cab is nearly twenty minutes late isn't it?" he confirmed. "I shall ring the cab company straight away."
A minute after I spoke to Daniel, the cab finally drew up.
"You are twenty minutes late," I told the cab driver and immediately felt that the tone of my voice could have been less accusatory.
"Not my fault mate," snapped back the driver. "I was in Heathrow when they asked me to do this job, and I had to drive through some hard traffic."
I felt sorry I had snapped at the cab driver and decided to make amends.
"Yes of course, it probably was not your fault. How long will it take to get to White City and the Television Centre?"
The cab driver softened immediately. By the time I left the cab at the BBC Television Centre in White City, he and I had been having a raging conversation about the politics of Bangladesh (which was where he had originally come from).
At the BBC interview, I made various comments about Shilpa Shetty, Jade Goody and Big Brother. After the interview, I was escorted back by another cab to a restaurant where my wife and son were waiting.
After a hearty meal, when we did finally reach home, I suddenly remembered that I had to be in Bolton by 11.30 AM the next day for a consultation meeting with the Hindus of the north of England.
"Bolton?" said my wife in surprise. "How on earth are you getting there so early? It takes three to four hours to travel from home to Bolton."
I checked the internet for train timings and was jolted out of my gentle Saturday reverie.
I had travelled the London-Manchester route by Virgin trains many times on weekdays. Bolton was only 30 minutes from Manchester, and I had thought I could leave home at 7.00 AM to reach Bolton by 10.30 AM, well in time for the meeting at 11.00 AM.
But I had not reckoned with that dreaded British institution called the "Sunday timetable".
Trains and buses run to normal times on weekdays, and most Saturdays. On Sundays however, there always was a reduced service.
Sunday, after all, is a day that very few British people like to travel. It is a day for staying at home with family. Only a few abnormal souls like me undertake to do Sunday travel.
I discovered in dismayed silence, that the first train out of Watford Junction to Manchester Piccadilly was not at 7.00 AM, but at 8.53 AM. The train would only take me to Bolton by 1.00 PM, about 30 minutes after the meeting actually finished.
I couldn't believe that I had actually forgotten all about the dreaded Sunday Timetable. There was no way I could get to the Bolton meeting on time.
Then I remembered that my PA had actually offered to book my tickets for this journey. In some misplaced feeling of chivalry, I had gently brushed her suggestion aside and told her, rather proudly, "Don't worry Rani. You are quite busy today, so I'll try and book my ticket myself. I'll just walk up to the ticket counter at the train station and book the ticket before the journey. It's a simple ticket and I can manage it very well on my own."
I knew I would have to tell her on Monday that I jad completely failed to manage my tickets on my own without her help. I could almost imagine her chuckle with glee to learn of my own incompetence in doing what she does so well.
The woes of a Sunday traveller in Britain can fill an epic novel.
Private prejudice and public veneer
Yippee! For once, I actually agreed with what Trevor Phillips, the Chair of the Commission of Racial Equality in UK had to say.
Speaking about the Shilpa Shetty row on Celebrity Big Brother, he said, “The programme had laid bare the dark heart of private prejudice that too often sits behind the public veneer of tolerance.”
And – er – some of us may ask: what exactly does that mean in plain English?
Basically, the CRE Chair was alluding to what I have heard many (and I mean many) ‘wise’ and experienced Indians in the UK often say: “The main problem is that most English people are polite and respectful while speaking to you on your face. They don’t display any signs of intolerance. But as soon as your back is turned, and they are amongst themselves, they do talk ill of us and make comments that could be considered racist.”
I had never actually been fully convinced of such allegations and always let such comments go. After all, how much can one build one’s relationships with people based on conjecture?
But hold on – reality TV actually proved some of these wise and experienced Indians right. And that is what Trevor Phillips was referring to in ‘posher’ English: that people could hold racial prejudices in private conversations amongst themselves, but in the public domain they always maintain a politically correct and disguised version of themselves that appears tolerant and respectful.
Anybody who saw Danielle and Jo, the two cohorts and partners-in-war of the loud-mouthed and foul Jade Goody, the main persecutor of Shilpa Shetty, would have seen this in action.
I was amazed at one point when I saw Jo (or was it Danielle? I could never tell who was who) speak to Shilpa in a conciliatory tone. She sympathised with Shilpa, and was almost apologetic. But as soon as Shilpa’s back was turned, she ran back to Jade Goody, repeated every word that Shilpa had said, and sniggered away nineteen-to-the-dozen, while taking great pleasure in dissecting the Bollywood actress to pieces.
This happened on more than one occasion. I noticed that two-faced private conversations of the three ‘witches’ of CBB were much more virulent and insulting, and often laid bare the prejudices they held in private.
Could their behaviour have been simple envy and plain bullying or what the media referred to as ‘bitching’? Or could it have been exactly what Trevor Phillips referred to as the thin veneer of public tolerance hiding the private prejudices that people often hold?
Personally, I had never been a fan of Big Brother, and until the Shilpa Shetty row, I had no idea who the residents of the Big Brother House actually were. As soon as the media started calling me for my comments, everything changed. I had to actually rush to see a few episodes, read a bit on the net and familiarise myself with the ‘house politics’.
At one point, after I finished an interview for BBC Radio Five Live, I got a call from the Hindu Forum of Britain’s office, and the female staff cooed, “Ramesh, we just heard you on Radio, and cor blimey (sic), we never knew you watched Big Brother. I could never have imagined you talking about Jade Goody in public.”
Uhm ah – could this also be some sort of prejudice happening in reverse?
Speaking about the Shilpa Shetty row on Celebrity Big Brother, he said, “The programme had laid bare the dark heart of private prejudice that too often sits behind the public veneer of tolerance.”
And – er – some of us may ask: what exactly does that mean in plain English?
Basically, the CRE Chair was alluding to what I have heard many (and I mean many) ‘wise’ and experienced Indians in the UK often say: “The main problem is that most English people are polite and respectful while speaking to you on your face. They don’t display any signs of intolerance. But as soon as your back is turned, and they are amongst themselves, they do talk ill of us and make comments that could be considered racist.”
I had never actually been fully convinced of such allegations and always let such comments go. After all, how much can one build one’s relationships with people based on conjecture?
But hold on – reality TV actually proved some of these wise and experienced Indians right. And that is what Trevor Phillips was referring to in ‘posher’ English: that people could hold racial prejudices in private conversations amongst themselves, but in the public domain they always maintain a politically correct and disguised version of themselves that appears tolerant and respectful.
Anybody who saw Danielle and Jo, the two cohorts and partners-in-war of the loud-mouthed and foul Jade Goody, the main persecutor of Shilpa Shetty, would have seen this in action.
I was amazed at one point when I saw Jo (or was it Danielle? I could never tell who was who) speak to Shilpa in a conciliatory tone. She sympathised with Shilpa, and was almost apologetic. But as soon as Shilpa’s back was turned, she ran back to Jade Goody, repeated every word that Shilpa had said, and sniggered away nineteen-to-the-dozen, while taking great pleasure in dissecting the Bollywood actress to pieces.
This happened on more than one occasion. I noticed that two-faced private conversations of the three ‘witches’ of CBB were much more virulent and insulting, and often laid bare the prejudices they held in private.
Could their behaviour have been simple envy and plain bullying or what the media referred to as ‘bitching’? Or could it have been exactly what Trevor Phillips referred to as the thin veneer of public tolerance hiding the private prejudices that people often hold?
Personally, I had never been a fan of Big Brother, and until the Shilpa Shetty row, I had no idea who the residents of the Big Brother House actually were. As soon as the media started calling me for my comments, everything changed. I had to actually rush to see a few episodes, read a bit on the net and familiarise myself with the ‘house politics’.
At one point, after I finished an interview for BBC Radio Five Live, I got a call from the Hindu Forum of Britain’s office, and the female staff cooed, “Ramesh, we just heard you on Radio, and cor blimey (sic), we never knew you watched Big Brother. I could never have imagined you talking about Jade Goody in public.”
Uhm ah – could this also be some sort of prejudice happening in reverse?
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