London’s postgraduate degrees come with a hefty price tag, so much so that you might start scouting for unicorns.
Kirsty:
Looking at me with the kind of expression usually reserved for news regarding a 3 am call from your ex, or worse, the sudden cancellation of Love Island, Fi and I cling to the table in a central London cafe as if it were a life raft. Drowned in the aggressive white noise of frantic typing from finance bros who clearly have more “hustle” than I do, I nervously sipped a latte that costs more than my remaining self-respect as I try my best to pretend the existential horrors being laid out in front of me are someone else’s reality.
“You need to know,” she says, her voice echoing. “You need to understand how screwed we are.”
I don’t want to know. We were meant to be London master’s girls this September. We dreamt of wandering through Bloomsbury, appearing intellectually tortured yet effortlessly aesthetic and mysterious. I don’t want the ‘real world’ to ruin my “2026 academic weapon” Pinterest board. But then I looked at the numbers.
As it turns out, simply wanting something enough is not a valid form of currency in the UK’s education system. After scouring through the sea of information about postgraduate study, reality hit me like a rogue ‘Boris Bus’. For the 2025/26 academic year, the maximum government Postgraduate Loan sits at £12,858 (GOV.UK, 2026). At first, that sounded like a lot of money, until you realise that multiple London-based master’s programmes have tuition fees starting at £15k and then spiralling into the stratosphere. According to the Sutton Trust (2021), this is one of the biggest barriers to social mobility – a kind of postgraduate premium increasingly reserved for those with the capital to bridge the gap.
And that’s just the ticket to the show, before you can even factor in the hidden costs of simply staying alive. The 2025 Student Money Survey revealed how bad things have gotten: 76% of students reported financial worries, and 83% said those worries affected at least one other aspect of their wellbeing. Alarmingly, 30% said it even dragged down their grades (Save the Student, 2025). As for our daydreaming, MoneySavingExpert (2024) highlighted a key missing detail: the loan isn’t a lifeline but a “double-tax” on what we may earn in the future.
Now, I am fully aware of the privilege dripping off this conversation. The fact that Fi and I are even sitting here, debating over the “viability” of a master’s degree is peak ‘first-world problem’, and I know it. But awareness doesn’t dilate our panic. It rises anyway, a specific London-flavoured hysteria present only after realising your tuition alone could easily fund a small coup in any constituency. If only it were just the tuition. There’s also the emotional surcharge of existing within the M25, where stepping outside costs you £20 and a trip to the library somehow involves sacrificing your future children’s inheritance to a single avocado.
Fi:
“It’s ok”, I insist, “it will all work out because we are pure of heart. The money will find us”. Saying it out loud, the sentiment doesn’t land.
“Ok, maybe not, but there’s got to be a way for us to find it.” Kirsty stares at me, awaiting whatever solution I’m plotting. I wade through the never-ending pit of sludge that is my brain, searching for something –anything– to get us out of the mess we’re putting ourselves in as I take a bite of my £5.50 croissant.
“I’ve got it! We can each sell a kidney; that should cover us for a while”.
“And what if we need our Kidney?” she responds, eyes wide with concern.
I shrug, “That’s what the other one’s for”.
“And what if something happens to the other one?”
It’s a valid point; it doesn’t seem worth investing in a master’s degree if you won’t be around to enjoy it.
The hours tick past as we enter a brainstorming session that would surely impress any future employers (although, given the subject matter, perhaps not). We cycle through idea after idea. We could become crypto Bros? (All they have is a laptop and misplaced ego). Or maybe start a pyramid scheme selling house plants (the Brighton hipsters will go absolutely crazy for that). Pop-up shops and boutiques are sooo in right now; maybe we could just rent out our wardrobes under the guise of being TikTok’s next ‘hidden gem’. And once it blows up, we could make thousands by convincing celebs that our outfits are hot commodities that MUST be seen on the red carpet. (I like to think we have an aesthetic people would pay to match). And there’s always surrogacy. I heard you can be paid up to $90,000 to have a baby in the States, though I do worry that being pregnant in the US could get in the way of us galavanting around Bloomsbury.
Silence descends upon our table, and Kirsty cracks open her £15 salad box; the flimsy wooden fork snaps upon impact with an edamame bean. We had nothing. All our ideas were too risky – I’m not even sure I totally understand what a pyramid scheme is, let alone how to run one. I guess I’ll have to return to plan A: save money by making my own graduation dress, and pray that one of the summer job applications I’ve sent out is accepted by someone who will pay more than minimum wage.
Kirsty:
I lean across the table, with the calculated madness of a woman who has just solved the global water crisis. Or, at least, a woman who has finally found a loophole in the laws of physics and finance.
“Hear me out,” I whisper, my forehead dangerously close to a stray smear of pesto from my salad. “Maybe we just get a sugar daddy? Even better, we share one. Like a Netflix subscription, except we’re the ones benefiting from direct debit!”
Fi just stares, blinking as she runs a system check to confirm this nightmare pitch is, in fact, real.
“It’s not a lifestyle choice, Fi, it’s a diversified financial strategy,” I insist. “We can just tell our parents we secured ‘alternative private funding’. It’s technically true. Although we need the rare, mythical unicorn: the sugar daddy who only wants our company. I can’t do those ‘cheeky extras’…”
“So, we need someone with a Black American Express and loneliness-epidemic-induced desire to pay for our tuition in exchange for a chat. Seems likely…” Fi remarks.
We stare into the middle distance, building an entire life around a shared sugar daddy, who lives in a penthouse, and only requires someone to occasionally tell him his tie looks nice.
Fi:
The questions linger on. How do we find this mythical man? Is there a loyalty card scheme? Should we brush up on our conversation pointers, or even just our ability to be active listeners? I’m not very good at pretending to be interested in men’s hobbies at the best of times, let alone if he’s a rich old man with whom I have nothing in common.
I may have vowed to NEVER work in hospitality again, but this is starting to feel like more work than just getting a job alongside the degree.
“Back to the drawing board…?” Kirsty suggests.
“Maybe we should start by packing our own lunches.”
Another article you may enjoy – https://thebadgeronline.com/2026/05/am-i-too-woke-for-a-boyfriend/
