Hong Kong: Where property prices are as high as the buildings.

We are on our annual trip to Hong Kong, visiting family.

It's a good opportunity to look at the market in London from a somewhat more global perspective; far removed from the daily anxiety of trying to buy and (more importantly) sell in Prime London.

Although HK is beset with political uncertainty as it finally comes to terms with the reality of being a Chinese 'colony' rather than a British one, its frenetic energy is as compelling as ever.

Young Europeans still pour into the city, excited to find themselves in a town where (thanks to low taxes) they can afford to live the high life. But these days it's often Mainland Chinese who are really running the show, pack the luxury shopping malls and who will define the future.

The property market here may not be as hot as it once was, but new high-rise apartment buildings continue to spew onto the market and investors are still eagerly snapping up the best of them.

Applications to buy at some developments are now so oversubscribed that properties are allocated by lottery.

For part of our trip, we are staying in one of the city's hottest property spots - Kennedy Town. This area at the western edge of Hong Kong is gradually being 'gentrified'.

The Cadogan, The Hudson and The Merton are new high-rise developments rising 30 floors or more above crumbling, older, poorer low-rise apartment buildings. What were once open fronted street level repair workshops or local laundries are being transformed into trendy bars and chic restaurants. Young expat bankers and lawyers carrying take-out lattes from Pacific Coffee are almost as prevalent as Chinese families heading out for some breakfast noodles.

Much of this transformation is due to the arrival of a major new MTR station in Kennedy Town (HK's underground), which can whisk you to Central or Admiralty in less than 10 minutes.

It's hard to think of a direct comparison in London, but I suppose parts of East London, Elephant & Castle or Vauxhall come closest.

What isn't remotely comparable however is the cost. An apartment at the latest and smartest Kennedy Town tower (the Cadogan) can cost £2000 per square foot or more. That's Knightsbridge prices to live in the equivalent of Elephant & Castle!

Given the ongoing uncertainties surrounding HK's relationship with China and the pent-up frustrations of the Occupy movement, I find this all rather confusing and at the same time encouraging.

Aside from the very real threat of some insane Islamist atrocity, London feels like a world city, a grown up if you like, whereas HK still feels some way off that by comparison. Where we have elegant terraces and squares they have showy tall towers and glitzy malls. Where we have the rule of law, democracy and a mature sense of fairness they are struggling to find an identity after passing from one colonial master to another.

Day to day life in London is also no longer massively more expensive than places like Hong Kong. OK, so taxes are lower out here (as are taxi fares). But when you look at the basic costs of housing, health, education and the often imported foods, things begin to even up.

Over here it costs £30,000 just to get your child's name down for a decent school where English is taught. And you won't get that back until your child leaves school. Fees on top will be another £30k a year. And that's not even a boarding school.

If you want good healthcare on tap....you'll have to pay for it. Big time.

And, as I've explained, even a relatively cramped one bed flat in an older Kennedy Town block can cost around £600k to buy. Or about £3000 a month to rent.

Don't get me wrong, I love HK and think it's a wonderful place for young Europeans to adjust their perceptions of the world and become less west-centric.

But, square foot for square foot, London still looks far better value from a property perspective than Hong Kong.

For that £2000 a square foot in K-Town's teeming streets, you could have bought our small (but perfectly formed) flat in Knightsbridge.

Zuma would be a stroll away, rather than the 20 minute cab ride we took to their HK outpost the other night. Harrods would be your 'corner shop' rather than the rash of 7/11s that have taken over K-Town. And your neighbour would be an Arab princess rather than a slightly resentful Chinese local.

Over on the other side of HK, in the top end middle class environs of Jardine's Outlook or Happy Valley,  the price of a 1100 square foot box with a pinched, vertiginous terrace on the 25th floor of a high rise would easily buy our 1350 square foot house in Kensington's Abingdon Road with a front garden, two terraces and two large living areas.

Currently being marketed in Happy Valley, for example, is a new block called Broadwood Twelve. Prices for the higher floors are around $HK33,000 (£2800) per square foot and the building rises to a staggering 51 floors. If I could face the stomach churning fear of living that high, the views out across the city and harbour must be truly extraordinary.

But in the time it takes a Broadwood Twelve resident just to descend to ground level, I can be on Kensington High Street or wandering into Holland Park.

To my mind, there's no comparison. And I really am trying not to be biased.

On top of this, the house in Abingdon Road is around £600 a square foot cheaper!

With both newly fashionable and older more established top end areas now more expensive in HK (and to my mind less livable) than London, it's perhaps not surprising that a major international agent with a big presence here has just predicted that a new wave of money will head west this year to buy up chunks of London.

Lets hope so.

Of course, it's not entirely fair to compare lifestyles, or indeed properties and prices. They are completely different. And there's much to be said for the way of life in both cities.

However (and Mr Farage, please note), personally I'd far rather an overbearing and expensive EU bureaucracy on my back than the overwhelming might of a Beijing government that's still communist in name (and frighteningly authoritarian in practice).

Not too shabby. Even though I say so myself.

Its been 10 months in the making - thanks to planning delays and several shockingly inept professional consultants - but it's now done, dusted...and on the market.

As you can see below, following the beauty parade of five agents, we went with Savills. For a large operation at the top end, these guys (actually it's girls in this case) have been a revelation. 

Given the state of the market (thanks, George, for making it even worse), I have no idea when/if we'll sell the house. But if it doesn't go quickly (or even slowly) I won't be blaming our agent, Sarah. 

She worked incredibly fast to get it on the market in time for a short burst before the Christmas shutdown and it's already paid off. Even though we haven't had 'mass' viewings, those we're having seem like serious buyers. And the proportion of second viewings is high. I couldn't really have asked for much more in the circumstances.

Now that we've moved in, we really do love this house. And in truth we'd do almost anything to keep it. Indeed, I've become a major buyer of lottery tickets in the forlorn hope that my luck might change.

Combined with our house in Somerset, 38 Abingdon Road makes the ideal London base for our life stage. Small enough to be easy to maintain, large enough to be far more than a claustrophobic pied a terre.

I'm no interior designer (obviously) but we've tried to make it a very livable, relaxed space rather than a pristine, self-conscious showhouse.

My wife's paintings add a bit of quality and personality (in fact, I'm worried that they are attracting more interest from some viewers than the house itself).

I'll be sorry to leave this home. But will be relieved if we can sell it soon.

As always, we have gone over budget and come to market late. For a year now the balance on my bank account has only gone in one direction....and it would be nice (not so say vital) to see it go in the opposite direction for a change.

But in the meantime, I'm going to revel in the chance to live in two of the nicest places in Britain - London W8 and Chantry, nr Frome.

(Anyone want to buy a pair of wonderful houses?)

We are an island nation: A kitchen island nation.

A few weeks ago, as I specified the finishing touches to our latest project, I was struck by just how much Britain has changed. And not always for the better.

A few generations ago, bravery was going off to fight in a World War.

Today it's choosing not to have a kitchen island with something called a 'breakfast bar'.

It seems we've become a bunch of limp-wristed interior obsessives, agonising over the endless variety of greys on the Little Greene and Farrow & Ball colour charts. Having sleepless nights about whether to plump for 3 seater sofas or a possibly more 'on trend' corner unit. Worrying whether or not the wood floor planks we've chosen are as wide as today's fashion dictates.

I'm as guilty of this as anyone, but it doesn't make me feel any better about myself.

I can't imagine my grandfather (or father, for that matter) caring one iota what the kitchen looked like, or what colour the walls were, or whether the bathroom was a wet room or not (assuming, that is, they actually had a bathroom).

Their lives were more about survival; about putting 'bread on the table', about whether they could afford to buy us new school shoes, about keeping a roof over our heads rather than what was under that roof.

I suppose recent events to commemorate WW1 have brought this all into sharp focus.

The nearest I've come to a dank, dark, muddy trench is the dig-out for our new basement. And that sort of says it all.

I have been spoilt. My children even more so. Aren't we lucky.

Five agents pitch for my business. Or was it the other way round?

It's been a long and stressful day.

Five agents have viewed the house, and opening the front door for the first time to the critical gaze of these professional appraisers is akin to exposing oneself in public.

Of course they're going to be polite. Of course they're going to find something (however small) to pick on and praise. Of course they're going to say how keen they are to market the property.

But what do they really think?

Occasional glimpses of their true opinions are there, if you pay attention.

"Perhaps a little more storage in the second bedroom wouldn't go amiss" means "christ, that room's bloody small and there's absolutely nowhere to put anything."

"It's an interior design that covers almost all potential buyers" means "it's incredibly bland".

Translating their views on the market requires similar interpretative skills.

"It's getting softer" means " It's pretty awful out there and prices are actually falling."

"Buyers have slightly more choice at the moment" means " Nothing's bloody selling so the market's stuffed with similar houses."

"There are still serious buyers out there" means "we met someone last week who actually seemed keen to buy."

This may be funny. But it's no laughing matter when a very significant part of our personal wealth (ha ha) is tied up in a single property.

Without naming names (sorry about that, but I actually might need these people), here's a quick sketch of today's visitors.

Agent 1: This single office agency is tres fashionable. (Or at least likes to think it is.) I actually quite like the main guy. Although I'm much older, we have a few acquaintances in common. Others in the industry have warned me off him, but I can't help admiring his tilt at the old school networks who dominate his patch. Today he arrived looking unusually depressed and downbeat. This is very rare for agents who are normally so falsely upbeat they remind you of American waiters. It turns out he'd lost a large sale the previous day when a celebrity buyer had walked away at the last minute without explanation. His visit was also clouded, I think, by the fact that he didn't think I would seriously consider appointing him. Sadly, after his performance today, he's right.

Agent 2:  A smart double act on the doorstep this time. In the past I've resisted appointing this agent as their people can be frighteningly haughty and a touch condescending. Not this time however. Just the right mix of upmarket confidence and intelligent insights means that this enormous global agency brand goes shooting up in my estimation. Without patronising me, they make me feel good about the house while at the same time managing my expectations on price. A clever and difficult trick to pull off.

Agent 3: This is the sort of bright young woman any agency would be pleased to employ at a senior level. But she and her agency don't feel quite right for this job. It's a well known multi-office London agency working in all the hot (well, not so hot these days) areas. I admire their attitude. And know they are not full of bull. I feel, however, that our house needs a bit of bull to maximise its potential.
I also feel their office (even in these portal dominated days) needs to be a bit more on the doorstep. Her office is the other side of the Cromwell Road in a land more populated by flat dwellers, transient international investors and Ferrari driving wide-boys. Our street, on the other hand, is full of families that actually live and work here. Eat at The Abingdon. Say hello to each other. And care about their neighbours. It's just too different.

Agent 4: This double act is old school from the tips of their polished brogues to the cut of their sub-Saville Row suits.  Henry Snr is very considered, clearly a very successful equity partner, much smarter than his 'toffish' manner implies and able to remain thoroughly charming while delivering bad news. Henry Jnr is all smiles, enthusiasm and optimism. They make a good, if slightly imbalanced team. I know that on a daily basis, however, I'm going to be dealing with Henry Jnr. And even though I respect this agency, I'm not sure that's going to work.

Agent 5: This is the small agency I bought the house through. They are practically neighbours and have been incredibly helpful throughout the process of buying and renovating. I like them. I would love it if they sold our house, but I'm not convinced they have enough clout to be our sole agent. They will however get their chance alongside a bigger name. Because not only are they hardworking and nice, they also know the streets around here better than anyone else. Nothing (and nobody) moves without them knowing about it. And that's invaluable.

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Although the agents were technically pitching to me, it didn't always feel that way.

Having lived and breathed this house for 18 months it actually felt more like I was pitching my taste and limited development skills at them. But perhaps that's just my own insecurity coming out.

I could of course have dozens more agents round. Many of whom would almost certainly flatter my ego rather more than those above. But ego doesn't pay the bills and I think we've seen the right mix of agents.

Now we just have to wait for their valuations and think about who we'd like to work with.

The valuation is of course driven by market forces such as local comparables and the dreaded 'price per square foot' index. I doubt, therefore, that their numbers will vary that much.

Who we'd like to work with, on the other hand, is a much tougher question. And one to sleep on.

Night, night.

Bloggers Block and the W8 on my shoulders.

While you were busy slapping on the sun block this summer, I was suffering the frustrations of 'bloggers block'.

I must have started and abandoned at least six different blog pieces. And with my last effort published way back in July, friends and followers have begun pushing for an update.

It's not easy, however, to explain the combination of excitement and extreme apprehension I feel as we near completion of our W8 project.

What will be the next disaster to delay us?

Have I spent too much? Or not enough?

By how much have I blown the budget? Will it ever get finished?

Will it sell? And what's it worth, in today's less than bubbly central London market?

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When we finally started work on the house earlier this year, the tiny kitchen was so old the look was a retro fashion trend. 

The semi-basement was a damp, dark, inhospitable space fit for little more than rats. 

The flank wall was a 40ft x 30ft maze of frighteningly wide cracks. 

The bathroom (well, it had a bath in it) was a lethal little cubby hole with an electric heater circa 1955. 

The roof leaked like a watering-can rose. The beam holding up the 'V' roof was so rotten you could have pulled it down by hand.

The place was a disgrace. And Lady or not, I think the wealthy owner should never have been allowed to let such a pretty little house in one of Kensington's best streets fall into such disrepair - dangerous disrepair.

Seven months later, it's basically a new house.

New roof. New floors. New electrics. New Plumbing. New flank wall render. New steel cage supporting the whole house. 

What it doesn't have yet, though, is a new kitchen or mains gas or a basement floor. Yet we moved in three weeks ago. 

To say I'm a little stressed is the understatement of the decade. For weeks now I've only had about four hours sleep a night. 

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The builders have been magnificent. I can usually find fault with anyone and anything (as my wife will enthusiastically testify) but Victor Build has been almost faultless.

Even as I sit here with a half finished kitchen, a ply-boarded floor and mice running rampant round the feet of my daft dog, I can't really blame Vic and Tomas for the problems.

There is however a product I do hold responsible for causing me to age ten years in that many weeks, and I'm embarrassed to say that it's a product I chose, that I championed here in my blog and that I desperately wanted - Dinesen Douglas Fir floor boards.

These solid, extra thick boards look indestructible. But within minutes of being laid on to our underfloor heating system they curled up like cabbage leaves. 

We thought it was damp in the sub-floor causing the problem, so ordered more of these expensive lumps of timber from Messrs Dinesen. Two weeks later they finally arrived and a small army of fitters worked over a weekend to rectify the problem. Only to find exactly the same thing happened.

I don't want to get into a libellous rant about Dinesen but I would urge extreme caution to anyone thinking of choosing this currently fashionable wood. Read and then re-read the fitting instructions. We've had to throw out almost £7000 worth of planks and pay several thousand pounds for a, hopefully, more stable Douglas Fir floor from a different supplier. It's not just the money that's galling, it's the waste of time and wood.

The finish?
A pretty London cottage rises from the rubble.

Normally, of course, these problems with the floor would just be irritating delays to the project. For us, however, they've been far more disruptive.

In the middle of the 'crisis' we moved in. And have now been camping in the house for about three weeks.

The kitchen has a working oven, a cold water tap, a fridge....and little else.

We have three knives and forks, six plates, a few cups and glasses....and little else (the rest went into store for what we supposed would be a few days).

From the outside, our neighbours think we're living in bijou luxury. From inside it feels like a builders yard we've been forced to live in.

Perhaps even more unsettling is the fact that we aren't the only ones who've moved in.

A colony of mice have taken up residence too.

For a few days my son and I were able to hide this fact from my wife. But when the scrabbling sounds and movement from the waste sack became louder than the TV we had to come clean.

Not surprisingly, Julia freaked. So we abandoned London and went to Somerset for some respite and some proper meals.

This went well until I discovered a bat flying around our bedroom. Even I freaked at that.

So, short of decamping to Fleet Services on the M3 and sitting out the works to both houses, we have nowhere to go that doesn't mean living with builders, delays, problems and payouts.

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Bye,Bye Saint Tropez. Bonjour Somerset.

Back in March I wrote about my hunt for a bargain in Saint Tropez.

We had found a perfect little doer-upper project : a small vineyard close to the beaches that could be redeveloped into a cute little holiday home complete with a few vines.

We agreed a price with the owner. We drew up plans for a modest expansion and redevelopment of the falling-down house. The notaires started off on their snail-like paper-trail.

Then the French shot themselves in the foot; they banned all development of agricultural property. No consultation. No exceptions. No discussion. Banned.

Now, lets get something clear. The redevelopment of this tiny property was not going to deprive some poor, EU subsidised vigneron of a living. It is so small its wine output couldn't support an alcoholic mouse let alone a local family.

The current owner is 93, doesn't live there, and just wants to raise some cash to bequeath to his daughter.

After some discussion, and a very substantial price cut, we still thought it might be worth a punt. A smaller punt on a very small house. But maybe still cute enough to be a good project.

Then the French took a machine gun to their foot: they said we probably couldn't build a pool or even enclose the property. It had to stay exactly as it was. An awful house on an uneconomic, unloved vineyard.

Like so often in France, the local Mairie and its planning department has a blinkered determination to maintain the status quo. However pointless and regressive that status quo might be.

The haughty arrogance and petty insularity of local bureaucrats would be hugely irritating if it wasn't actually terribly sad. The result of these seemingly irreversible national traits include high unemployment, zero growth and a general sense of malaise across the whole country.

Foiled by French Nimbyism. Not in my back (vine) yard. 

I genuinely love Saint Tropez and its surrounds. After 20 years holidaying and property owning there, it's like home to me. But without a lottery win of Euromillions proportions or the patience of a saint, it no longer seems a feasible place to lay my head.

So it was with renewed interest that I looked at the regular Rightmove alerts for properties coming to market in north east Somerset. This is an area we had identified as one we'd like to try for our first UK country home. The countryside around Frome is fast becoming fashionable, prices are rising and there are new shops, restaurants and hotels popping up all over the place.

Most of the alerts that arrive are for large old farmhouses that I sadly can't afford, or box-like new-builds that remind me of prison camps.

Then two days before we're due to visit some friends in a nearby part of Wiltshire, up pops the first interesting property I've seen in six months.

Amazingly, we have to beg the agents to let us see the house. They are too busy to show it the first Saturday it comes on the market!

Still, I'm glad we persisted against the negative attitude of a hopeless agent and persuaded the owners to show their house without an agent present (God forbid)..

The house turns out to be just what we've been looking for - next door to beautiful Mells, close to Frome and Bruton, and only ten minutes from the famous hipster hangout at Babington. It's big enough. Old enough. A bit eccentric in its layout. And, most importantly, has potential as a doer-upper.

With a bit of bridging while we complete another project, it is even affordable.

What's not to like (well, there's a few things, but general euphoria over-rules such practical stuff) ?

Not exactly the South of France. More West of Frome.

In truth, of course, I'd rather be in the South of France by a beach than in a very quiet English village by a lake. But the reality is that without actually moving to the continent we'd get very little time in a French house. With Somerset, on the other hand, we can be there most weekends.

Also, we've never tried our hand at an English country doer-upper. So it's out with Cote Sud magazine and in with the Cabbages & Roses catalogue.

Lots of checks. But no cheques.

If you're rich you can't borrow. If you're poor you can't borrow.

Only if you're a dull worker bee with a penchant for frugal living and a steady, going-nowhere job can you be pretty sure of securing a mortgage.

That's the apparent outcome of the recent tightening of lending checks.

It's absurd, it's counter-productive and it's not going to end well.

Over the last few days, I've listened to three of the wealthiest people I know complain that mortgage lending just doesn't exist for them any more.

Even though they might own a string of homes, a portfolio of equities and various business interests, their personal circumstances don't exactly fit the profile required to qualify for a loan.

The 21 year old Oxford Brookes sociology graduate with a clipboard and biro who they are forced to discuss their mortgage requirements with has a list of banal questions designed for a 30 year old supermarket deputy manager looking for a first home loan.

There are no experienced bank managers (high street banks can't afford real bankers any more), and there is no discretion, no variation, no common sense.

You might as well fill in the application online. There's nothing human about the process any more.

Even the so-called posh banks are little better.

By some peculiar accident of a previous life, I bank where the Queen banks. For 25 years I have borrowed from them against homes I have bought. I have always repaid these loans, always paid every monthly interest payment. Never once have I given them cause for even a flicker of concern.

For most of those years, they've never given me cause for concern either. If I was moving home or renovating a home, a quick chat with my manager was all it took to secure the funds required. Once, they even added an extra £100k to the mortgage offer just in case I needed it.

Their managers were always good sounding boards, providing reassurance or caution when appropriate.

I was in love with my bank, in fact. And took every opportunity to tell anyone who'd listen what a fantastic operation they were.

When I recently asked for a bridging loan however, the answer was an immediate no.

They didn't have a reason. There was no discussion of the case. Just a NO.

Eventually they did come up with an emailed reason: I was too old. They don't lend to people over 65, apparently. Trouble is, I'm not 65. Not for a few years, anyway.

Now, I accept that I don't fit the usual mould of borrower. My regular income is insignificant. I have neither an employer or a business with a track record.

What I do have though is a long history of financial stability, a couple of decent unencumbered prime property assets and a plan that would repay any bridging loan within 12 months.

I was asking for an LTV(loan to value) of only about 10-12%. So even in a catastrophic crash, the loan would still be well covered.

The risk involved was almost non-existent. But there is no longer any human process by which risk is assessed.

In its place there is now a facile fits-all check-list that permits no flexibility, no history, no individuality.

I'm sure the new guidelines will help prevent the granting of unrealistic mortgages, stop abuses of the system and slow the runaway train that is house prices. But at the same time won't it also curtail ambition, deter individuality and encourage conformity.

I am reminded of someone I once worked with who, in the 1980s, bought a house on a Chelsea square. At the time, even though he ran a hugely successful ad agency, the mortgage he had to take out frightened him. He wondered if he'd ever be able to repay it.

That house is now worth around £6m. His mortgage, I think, was for about £100,000.