Death in the afternoon. Dancing in the evening By Ruby Boukabou

It's 4am in Madrid and I'm kicking back in the still swinging El Jungo club with an insanely strong rum and coke and a bunch of jazz musicians who have just finished playing, when I mention that I haven't been to a bull fight, wondering if I should. There's a round of 'Oh no, we don't like. Even though we're Spanish, we are not aficionados.' I do understand. But, I have to admit, am slightly disappointed as while I'm not mad about the idea of death in the afternoon. on my first visit to Spain, I am intrigued by it. Possibly more so with the rum. Then, "ah si si si" interjects Carlos, a funky petit bass player, returning from the bar with more rum "I have not been to a corrida for a long time. Vamos!"

And so the next day, at six thirty pm, Carlos and I ascend from Metro Las Ventas into La Plaza de Toros, gripping our middle of the range tickets and joining the buzz of excited Spaniards. Built in 1929 with its first fight in 1931, Las Ventas is the most important ring in the world. It's huge. We're at the nightly fight during the festival of San Isidro, the world's most famous bullfighting festival that runs May- June. The plaza's scattered with temp stores and we purchase the obligatory bag of nuts and drinks then head into the large red brick structure for hats, fans, cushions (to sit on and throw into the arena if we're not impressed) and roses (to throw if we are). It's a hot, dry day and the energy's swirling. Sucking on a pistachio while ducking through the crowd, I'm wondering how I will cope.

Full word count 2000 words