The Mini Token Blog

Mortgage lenders have a derogatory name for people who switch
mortgage lenders to follow lower rates - they call them “Rate
Tarts”. The author has a much more apt description - Shrewd
Shoppers! After all, who spends more for exactly the same
product, in this case money, when you can get it cheaper
elsewhere? After all a £ from one lender as effective as a £
from another!

The mortgage market is highly competitive and as long as lenders
use price as the main weapon in their marketing platform, price
competition will encourage remortgagers to follow cheaper deals.
Call them Rate Tarts if you must, but they’ll be the richer for
it!

In a response to curb mortgage switching, some lenders have
raised their up-front charges and others improved their customer
retention programmes. In such a competitive market, accolades
will be awarded for the best customer retention programmes but
raising up front charges, will simply reduce the lenders market
share, albeit on improved profit margins. It seems that lenders
still have to learn that carrots are better than sticks!

For example, Birmingham Midshires currently offers a 3.89% two
year fixed deal. This looks like a clear bargain until you read
the small print - the arrangement fee is not the market average
of £500, it’s a massive £1,499! If you write off the fee over
two years at £749.50 per year, it’s equivalent to an additional
three quarters percent interest on a £100,000 mortgage.

So if you are tempted to remortgage you need to do two things.
Firstly add up all the costs of moving your mortgage. Remember
to add in the valuation fee (typically £250 on a £100,000
mortgage), the arrangement fee (typically £500), maybe a booking
fee (£50?), legal fees to switch the mortgage (usually around
£350 on a £100,000 mortgage), plus the cost of any penalties
you’ll be charged to exit your existing mortgage.

Now it’s time to phone your existing lender.

Tell them you are considering moving you mortgage for a better
deal. Unless you put pressure on them, lenders frequently work
on the principle that provided they offer a fairly attractive
deal, customer apathy will prevail. They rely on the fact that
many borrowers will be happy to sit tight and avoid the cost,
time and trouble of remortgaging. So shake their tree and see if
a better deals falls out. If they simply offer you their
standard variable rate they don’t deserve your business!

Once you have fully assessed the costs of moving, found the best
new deal you qualify for, and got your existing lender to quote
for keeping your business, you can make the comparisons and a
clear decision.

Brokers Online is one of the largest finance websites in the uk,
they provide access to life insurance quotes and most UK
financial services including remortgages. More information - How
Do I Know If I Should Switch Mortgages?

A bridge loan, which can also be called a hard money loan, is a short-term loan that is used until a person or company can secure permanent financing. Basically, they “bridge” the gap between today’s need for immediate cash to pay bills and the final closing of a pending investment deal or long-term financing package.

Bridge loans are usually offered for terms of 12-36 months and many can be refinanced into low cost, long-term financing through a lender. Bridge loans are not only for shorter terms, but are also needed to close quickly, so the borrower can take advantage of the opportunity to arrange for a longer term loan when they are ready. Speed is also an important factor in financing a bridge loan because the borrower may be trying to restructure debt or avoid claming bankruptcy.

Some borrowers look for a bridge loan to span the gap between the two transactions of buying a new home and selling the old one. However, most bridge loans are used in purchasing or refinancing commercial real estate. There are mortgage bridge loans and commercial bridge loans for various income properties including; apartments, industrial buildings, retail, hotels, healthcare, and mixed use.

For more information on a bridge loan, visit Security National Capital.

Michael Southard is the Vice President of Security National Capital.

Cars are a boy’s thing. And as much as that hurts my inner feminist to say that, it’s better than the alternative of perhaps admitting I have a disability of the brain.

Complex programming, computers, science, maths - no problems.
Learning foreign languages - Comment allez-vous? Je voudrais une bier, s’il vous plait.
Cars - err… where do I refill the oil again?

Should I ever be caught out in a group of male friends sharing an animated conversation that starts with “Mate… you should’ve seen the fully sick Nissan 350Z that was hooning down the M4 yesterday.” The best they could hope for from me is slightly squitty expression, while I hurt my brain trying to imagine what one looks like.

Yet my ignorance is not from lack of trying.
I’m 25 years old and have been a driver for seven years. I’ve had dad run me over the basics of car maintenance numerous times. I’ve had boyfriends and brothers point out all manners of cars and tell me their names, makes, model and detailed specs. But nothing sticks.

I am not a bad car owner. While it requires call centre assistance from dad, I check the oil regularly and always have it serviced when it’s due.
Also - I’m not a bad driver. The dints in side of my car are not my doing.

The ‘troubles’ started with a mad drunk on a bad hair day. My mild-mannered car was waiting for me to return in a car park outside the local pub, when an enraged drunk bodily smashed through the pub’s front window and picked a fight with my car. Probably over a girl. My car got a few good shots in as well.

I think that’s when my car started hanging out with the wrong crowd, y’know, the sort of people who you find congregating in McDonald’s carparks way past midnight.

Next, it stole away in the midst of the night from our Leichhardt home with a bunch of unwashed youths, and went for joyride.
I didn’t sleep all night, tossing and turning over the horrors it might be getting up to, wondering where it was, if it was safe and warm enough. Oh runaway, come home.

A call from Manly police came the next day to say they had found it. ‘Probably in a McDonald’s carpark with a pack of cigarettes’ I thought, as I caught the bus up north to retrieve the delinquent.
I told it how very disappointed I was as I drove home, sitting amongst the finger print dust and smudged CDs. (The youths had stolen off with the player, but had decided that Jimmy Barnes was not fully sick enough, and nonchalantly ejected him onto the passenger’s seat.)
I installed a car alarm and imposed a curfew.

Not long after, we moved to a fancy suburb and I stopped worrying about my car’s errant ways as it made new friends amongst the porches and the clean-shaven 4WD’s.
I relaxed and began to sleep well at night.

And then… one morning I walked out to my car, and found it in a compromising position.
It’s screw-in petrol cap was missing. So, in fact, was the petrol door. Vanished without a rusty squeak.
After a bit of ranting and raving, I summoned my trusty sidekick - my partner and a male. My car was getting out of control. This was going to need a man’s heavy-handed tactics.
“Right you, to the wrecker!” he shouted as we bundled in and drove off.

Feeling like the parent of a ‘problem child’ on Parent’s Night, I could feel my stomach sinking.
Mechanics, auto electricians and other various car people make me nervous. I am morbidly afraid that my pathetic lack of knowledge of caring for a car will be exposed - and manipulated into a hefty bill.
Staring up at the wrecker’s gate, I noted with some relief that the sign read “AfFORDable spare parts.”

Walking inside, I mentally repeated to myself that I no longer drive a Laser, and I need to ask for a petrol door for a COMMODORE, lest I make an embarrassing slip of the tongue.
Exuding the exterior of a small woman that I hoped looked right at home in the surrounds of greasy, sweaty petrol cave, I stood, waiting for the staff to notice me.
At last I caught the attention of a mechanic wearing the standard uniform of a dirty blue singlet.
I approached with a million-watt smile and sweaty palms.
“Hi! Do you have a petrol door for a Ford Holden Commodore?” I chirped.

Gulp. Oh my God. I hope he didn’t hear me….
After a short pause and smirk, he asked “Round or square?”
I looked at my stupefied partner, who was backing away slowly. “Ah…” he said.
“It’s square” I said.
The smirking grease monkey looked at me: “Are you sure?”
“I’ll check, but I’m pretty sure it’s square,” I said, vividly recalling the endless times I’d opened it to put the petrol in.
The greasemonkey escorted us outside. In silence, we stood staring at the gaping hole. A perfect circle.

I allowed my partner to secure a new door in place before scuttling off home in shame, with our tails between our legs.
With a weary glance at my trusty sidekick, and a sigh of relief, I stepped out of the car and heaved the door shut.
Twanggg.
Half of the rear bumper hung swinging in the breeze.
“Cars are a boy’s thing,” I said to him.

This and other stories can be found at virtualwhimality.blogspot.com