Wherever I am, I wake up around eight o’clock. I do not have an alarm or wake-up call. Breakfast is coffee and croissant. Then I shower and put on make-up: some blue round my eyes and a bit of lipstick. For me it is important to feel good and look good.
If I am at home I am out riding by nine. I ride all day. You have got to practice, practice, practice . I have 15 horses, but I only take seven with me when I’m fighting.
I spent 10 years learning how to ride and kill bulls before I was good enough for the ring. Now I’m taken seriously because I fight well, not because I'm a woman. I regard myself as just another bullfighter. I don’t want to take advantage of being female.
Fighting bulls on horseback makes man woman equal, which is not the case on foot, where woman have to be manly. Anyway, the bullfighter’s outfit does not female contours and there is nothing fighting about a woman, covered in blood and sand, fighting a bull on foot.
I love everything to do with being a woman, even though I do a man’s job in a very macho world. I can handle the macho bit The problems come from the responsibility of knowing it is all down to me. My worst moments are when I am faced when I am training on my own in the cold and rain. It is not all glory. The nervous stress brings tears on occasions.
My parents are proud of me now but when I told them I wanted to be a bullfighter they were shocked. Fortunately they never stood in my way .I think they reasoned that it was batter to have a daughter with a head full of foolish ideas than no ideas at all. But , as the Spanish say, I was born for this.
I need to make £ 50,000 a year to pay for the horses and the rest my team.
I have fallen off a lot and I have been tossed at least 10 times. The worst I have suffered is broken ribs. Of course it is dangerous. The bull is broken ribs. Of course it is dangerous. The bull is there to kill you. He doesn’t think it’s a game. When the bull gets you, it happens so quickly that you hardly have time to react. You just know you have to get up and save yourself.
At home l enjoy cooking, but when I’m travelling, I eat the regional food. If I am near the sea, I eat fish; if I’m inland, I like lamb.
I am very, very superstitious. I was superstitious as a little girl but I am more so now. I will not put a hat on a bed. You only do that when someone dies. When I leave my room, I leave the light on and expect to see it still burning when I get back.
I dress in a certain order. First, I touch up my make up, then I put on my breeches, my blouse, the jacket, and then I polish my boots. When I am dressed, my friend Annie puts my hair up in a Pony tail. Inside my blouse, dangling round my neck are five charms of La virgin del Rocio and La Macarena.
I am scared, not so much of being hurt, more of failure and criticism. Criticism hurts more than a fall. Some days, to do well, I take risks I would not otherwise consider. I know I risk my life but I don’t like about it. So far I have never thought I was going to die. If I have children, I’ll stop. It is not fair to take these risks if others depend on you. The day I stop will be the day I wake and think: I’ve had enough; that’s it.
During the season I see very little of Simon. Our paths do cross. My friends are the people I travel with. I don’t take holidays. Maybe in the winter, when I am not fighting, I’ll go to Paris to do some shopping. There is a lot of administration involved, such as making sure people get paid, or the logistics of constantly being on the move, or last minute changes and calamities to be sorted. I have to be a businesswoman as will.
A glass or two of red wine calms me down, especially before I go to bed. On the road, evenings usually consist of supper with my team. I eat something off the menu. I’m a light sleeper and I have recurring nightmares. One is that the horses aren’t there. The most awful one is a bull that chases me into the car, back to the hotel, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, until I wake up with a start.