Cassandra

My mum spent thirty years as a teaching assistant at Redlands Primary. She'd come home with stories about the supply teacher crisis, how they'd scramble to cover classes when someone was off sick. The science lessons suffered most. She'd tell me how the kids' faces lit up during experiments, but how often they'd have to cancel because no one felt confident teaching it. That's what drew me to physics teaching after my degree. Not the subject itself, though I love that too, but the idea of being the person who doesn't cancel the experiments.

I finished my Physics degree at the University of Reading in 2023. Worked for eight months at a fintech startup in the town centre, building algorithms that predict credit scores. The work was fine, the money was decent, but every evening I'd volunteer at the Oxford Road Community Centre teaching basic computer skills to pensioners. Mrs Chen, who'd never touched a laptop before, learned to video call her grandchildren in Australia. Mr Patel figured out online banking after weeks of patient practice. That's when I knew. I wanted to teach, properly, in schools where those moments of understanding could change everything.

In February 2024, I applied for the University of Reading's PGCE Physics programme. Dr Sarah Williams, the admissions tutor, was genuinely excited when we met. She told me Berkshire had one of the worst physics teacher shortages in the South East. Secondary schools were cancelling A-level physics classes or running them with non-specialists. She said my application was exactly what they needed.

Then I tried to secure funding. The Department for Education website listed a physics teacher training bursary of £28,000. Perfect. That would cover my course fees and living costs. But when I called in April, they told me something had changed. A woman named Jennifer at the Teacher Supply Unit explained: "There is no funding at that level anymore. The physics bursary for the South East has been reduced to £15,000 due to Treasury spending constraints."

£15,000 wouldn't cover my rent, let alone food and transport. I asked if there were alternatives. "You could take out a career development loan," Jennifer suggested. So I'd go into debt to train for a job the government desperately needed me to do? It made no sense, but I accepted her explanation. Spending constraints. Everyone understood that phrase. I deferred my place.

In June, I contacted Reading Borough Council. Surely they had alternative training routes for local teachers? The education department passed me between three different officers. Finally, Councillor Marina Thompson told me: "We cannot afford to run that programme independently. You'll need to go through the Department for Education funding streams." The same streams that had just been cut. Round in circles.

August came. I was still volunteering at the community centre, watching three other graduates struggle with the same problem. David had a Chemistry degree from Oxford Brookes but couldn't afford the reduced bursary either. Sarah had studied Biology at Reading but the funding gap was identical. We'd joke grimly about forming our own unemployed science teachers' support group.

In September, I visited the University of Reading's Institute of Education one last time. Dr Williams walked me through the building to show me what I was missing. The physics teacher training suite was beautiful, purpose-built labs with digital whiteboards and equipment I could only dream of. But as we walked, I started noticing things that didn't fit the story I'd been told.

Entire corridors of seminar rooms stood empty. A computer lab clearly designed for teacher training sat unused, chairs stacked on desks. I asked Dr Williams how many physics trainees they'd recruited this year. "Eight," she said. "We have capacity for forty, but the funding only allowed us to offer eight places."

After she left me, I got lost trying to find the exit. A maintenance worker, Frank, helped me out. "You interested in the teacher training?" he asked. When I explained my situation, he shook his head. "That Physics Teacher Training Suite hasn't been booked all term. Shame really. Beautiful room, all that equipment just sitting there."

Walking home, something clicked. The people existed: me, David, Sarah, dozens of others who'd given up. The buildings existed: empty seminar rooms, unused labs, equipment gathering dust. The schools desperately needed us. Dr Williams had said so herself. What exactly was it that "there was no money" for?

The Department for Education had told me they couldn't find £28,000 per trainee. But this is the same government that issues pounds sterling. They don't find money under the sofa cushions. They create it by spending it. When they bailed out Northern Rock, they found £13.4 billion overnight. When they needed to fund COVID testing, they found £37 billion for Test and Trace. The money wasn't hiding somewhere. It was a question of whether they chose to spend it.

I started seeing this everywhere. The Conservative government that cut teacher training bursaries was the same one that gave themselves an effective pay rise by increasing MPs' expenses. The Treasury that said we couldn't afford proper physics teacher training spent £8 billion on the failed Green Homes Grant scheme. The resources existed. The people who wanted to teach existed. The choice not to connect them was political.

Now I understand what I didn't understand at the start. When someone says "there is no funding," they're not describing a fact about the universe. They're describing a decision. The government that prints the notes and mints the coins told me it couldn't find enough of them to train the teachers who were standing right there, ready to work in schools that desperately needed them.

I used to accept the excuse that "there was no money." I hear it differently now. The real questions were never about money. Were there people who wanted to teach? Yes. Were there schools that needed teachers? Yes. Were there training facilities available? Yes. Could the skills be taught? Obviously. The limit was never the sterling. The limit was the political willingness to spend it where it would make the most difference.

The excuse wasn't a fact. It was a choice wrapped in the language of impossibility. And I know this isn't just my story. It's the story of every constituency where people and needs exist side by side while someone in Westminster says the cupboard is bare.