We take a holiday in Kerala. After a swim in the sea, M says, perhaps inevitably, "So, why don't we live here? We could just buy a place and live off the rest of our money for ever."
I've spent the last hour fantasising about bland sandwich fillings and the lovely feeling of soft rain. I make a noncommittal noise.
Leaving the city the next day, M shouts through to the driver: "How much does a two-bedroomed flat cost here, Muthu?"
"Oh, about 5 lakhs."
I ask M what a lakh is.
"It's a hundred thousand. So that's 50 hundred thousand rupees."
We both think about it.
"That's 5m rupees," I say.
"Yes."
Right, so a two-bed flat here in south India is £6m, about 24 times more expensive than at home.
"No, that's not right. It's £6,000... or £60,000. Muthu! Did you mean 5,000 rupees?"
"No, 500,000," he replies.
Along the roadside, people are coming out of their tiny houses. One man is carrying on his head a huge pile of green leaves, another is pushing a bicycle piled high with coloured plastic water carriers.
"What about renting?" I ask.
He says, "Oh, that's 1,400 rupees a month." Which we both easily calculate to be just under £20.
On the way back from Heathrow a few days later, we take a cab home from Paddington. The fare comes to £18.50. As I get a £20 note out of my purse, M gives me a look that says, "That's one month's rent in Kerala", but I'm out the door, heading for the world's most enormous cheese and pickle sandwich.
