The coalition's childcare figures don't add up

Without greater long-term investment, the relaxation of ratios is extremely unlikely to lead to the savings promised by ministers.

When the coalition announced its intended relaxation of childcare ratios, one of the central planks of their argument was that it would lead to lower prices for parents. With childcare cost inflation currently running at over twice the rate of inflation, reducing prices is an understandable goal of policy. But many academics and those in the childcare sector were understandably dubious over this claim. Yes, relaxing the number of children each childcare worker can care for may reduce the ‘per-child’ cost to the provider, but it is not at all clear that the gain from this increase in productivity will necessarily flow into lower prices for parents. Perhaps more importantly, it is not clear whether quality of care would improve either. This is concerning given that quality increases were a stated aim of the policy

Last Friday, the Department for Education responded to a freedom of information request, which asked them to show how they came to this conclusion. The DfE’s modelling claims that the increase in ratios could lead to a remarkably large reduction in prices from 12 and up to 28 per cent. Let’s explore some of the assumptions behind this figure:

  • It assumes that childcare providers will actually make use of the larger ratios available to them: It is far from clear that childcare providers even want to increase ratios. Original survey evidence carried out by IPPR found that almost three quarters (74 per cent) of childminders won’t increase the number of children they care for following an increase in ratios. Almost four fifths of this group thinks the increase in ratios will reduce the quality of their services. A similar survey by the National Children’s Bureau, covering the whole of the sector, found that 95 per cent of respondents were concerned about increasing ratios.  If so many providers are not willing to take up the coalition’s offer, the DfE’s modelling is largely redundant.
  • The DfE’s upper estimate of 28 per cent assumes no increase in the pay of most existing workers: In order to make use of the increased ratios for children aged over three, the example nursery used in the DfE’s modelling needs to replace two of its non-graduate staff with two early years graduates. Having paid for their increased salary, the entirety of the extra revenue is given to parents in lower prices. What this means is that the wages of everyone else working in the setting don’t budge, with those looking after children aged two and under asked to care for more children but with no extra pay.
  • The DfE assumes high ratios for younger children but with no increase in the qualifications of their carers: Forthcoming IPPR research shows that while relaxing ratios for over threes may be a sensible idea, higher ratios are problematic for younger children, who require much more intensive care. While one way to mitigate the impact of higher ratios on young children would be to increase the skills of their carers, the modelling assumes that the extra graduates employed focus all of their caring time on over-threes, in order to unlock the higher ratio for that group. So while the higher ratios may lead to lower prices, parents of under threes should understandably be concerned about the resulting impact on quality.
  • The DfE fails to point out that some of the savings may be retained by nurseries to boost profits rather than passed on to parents: Neither the 28 per cent nor the 12 per cent figure imply any channelling of extra revenue into the profits of providers. This is very unlikely to happen because the sector is so unprofitable. Last year over a quarter of British nurseries made a loss. The idea that nurseries will not use new flexibilities to boost their often meagre profits looks a heroic assumption, and has worrying implications for the future stability of the childcare market.

Industry website Nursery World has pointed out several other flaws in the methodology, including the assumptions that there are no empty places in settings, when in fact 20 per cent of places are vacant, and that workers need time to plan and manage delivery.

The coalition clearly thinks that relaxing ratios, combined with tweaking the package of benefits offered to parents to buy childcare, is going to solve the childcare affordability problem affecting families across the countries. But neither are a quick fix. Without more long-term investment in the skills and capacity of the sector to increase places and quality, and reduce prices, the 28 per cent figure announced last week is extremely unlikely to be achieved.

Spencer Thompson is Research Fellow at IPPR

David Cameron during a visit to a London Early Years Foundation nursery on January 11, 2010 in London. Photograph: Getty Images.

Spencer Thompson is economic analyst at IPPR

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad