Chantelle

My mum worked nights at a care home in Catford for fifteen years. I grew up watching her come home exhausted but proud, telling me stories about the residents she looked after. Mrs Patterson who taught her to knit, Mr Williams who shared stories about working the docks. She'd say caring wasn't just a job, it was about dignity, about seeing people properly. When I left school, I knew that was what I wanted to do.

I trained as a Health and Social Care assistant at Lewisham College. The course was brilliant, really practical, teaching us about medication, mobility, mental health support. I felt ready to make a difference. But when I started looking for permanent work, everything fell apart.

I applied for care assistant roles at Goldsmiths Community Care first. They invited me for an interview, liked my qualifications, said I had exactly the right attitude. Then they mentioned the pay: £9.50 an hour. I was already earning £12 an hour through agency work, even though it meant never knowing if I'd have shifts next week. When I asked why the permanent rate was so low, the manager looked embarrassed. "We'd love to pay more," she said, "but the local authority sets our fees and there's just not enough in the pot."

I tried Lewisham Council's in-house care team next. Same story. The HR officer was apologetic but clear: "Central government funding settlements don't cover competitive wages in the care sector. Our hands are tied." I walked out confused. Here were employers who wanted to hire me, who needed staff, but who couldn't offer wages that would let me support my son and pay London rent.

I decided to improve my qualifications instead. I enrolled in an NVQ Level 3 course at South Thames College, thinking a higher qualification might open different doors. On the first day, I looked around the classroom. Half the seats were empty. The tutor, Sarah, explained that many students had dropped out because they couldn't afford to take the unpaid placements required for the qualification. "It's heartbreaking," she said. "We have people who desperately want to work in care, but they can't go three months without income."

The irony hit me during week three of the course. Sarah mentioned that three local care homes had contacted the college that month, desperately seeking qualified staff. "They're offering training contracts," she said, "but they can't meet the London Living Wage. There is no funding to bridge that gap." There it was again. No funding. As if the pounds had simply vanished from existence.

I started paying attention differently. Walking to the job centre with my neighbour Marcus, I passed the old Millwall Community Centre. It had been boarded up for years, but I'd never thought about what it used to be. Marcus mentioned his sister had done a care course there before it closed. "Proper facility," he said. "Simulation rooms, everything. Closed in 2019. Budget cuts."

Curious, I walked around the building. A security guard was checking the fence. I asked him about it. "Shame really," he said. "All the equipment's still in there. Beds, hoists, training mannequins. Just sitting there. The budget has been cut, so it all stays locked up." I stared at the building. Inside was everything needed to train carers. Outside were people who wanted to be carers. The only thing missing was someone willing to spend the money to connect them.

At the job centre, I started talking to other people in the queue. Marie had worked in care for eight years before giving up. "The wages don't cover rent in London," she said. "I'm better off claiming Universal Credit than working sixty hours a week and still not making ends meet." David had care experience from looking after his father but couldn't get hired without formal qualifications he couldn't afford to get. The people existed. The need existed. But somehow there was "no money" to bring them together.

That's when I started questioning the excuse I'd been accepting. The government that puts the Queen's head on the notes told me it couldn't find enough notes to train people who were standing right there, ready to work. The same government that found billions for bank bailouts, that spent hundreds of millions on consultants, suddenly discovered empty pockets when it came to connecting carers to care homes.

I realized the limit was never the money. The government issues the pounds. It decides where they go. When someone said "there is no funding for competitive care wages," what they really meant was "we have chosen not to fund competitive care wages." When they said "budget cuts closed the training centre," they meant "we decided to close the training centre rather than budget for it."

The resources were all there. The equipment in the locked community centre. The unemployed carers at the job centre. The care homes with empty rotas. The students who couldn't afford unpaid placements. The real question was never whether the pounds existed. It was whether the government chose to spend them into the places where people needed to connect.

I'm still doing agency work, still fighting for stable hours. But I see the system differently now. Every time someone tells me "there's no money" for care training, for proper wages, for the things that would make social care work properly, I hear something else. I hear a political choice wrapped in the language of impossibility. The pounds exist. The government creates them. The decision not to spend them where they're needed most is exactly that: a decision.