It’s exactly one week since I first arrived in Cordoba and I have been distinctly singed around the edges. I am walking around pink, flustered and looking very conspicuously “foreign.” And the “loco” argentine weather is not the only thing to have made its mark this week. On Wednesday morning I stepped over a threshold and into the office of one of the most happening magazines in Cordoba to begin my posting as an argentine journalist. Big gulp.

After a 45 minute walk in the relentless, dripping heat of the siesta, I wasn’t looking my best - that I will admit. But Editor Guillermo welcomed me in to his office regardless and showed me the ins and outs of the magazine. All good until now. Then I met the team: a sparkling group of beautiful people, all with immaculate teeth and glistening hair. They seemed not in the least bit concerned by the debilitating weather conditions and glided gracefully around the office wearing jeans and a large dose of fashion-mag gloss. I hid my hairy legs under the table and tried to slow my heart rate. Now you have seen "Ugly Betty", and possibly "The Devil Wears Prada"… well now I see where they are coming from. These people are utterly terrifying. They sit around and flick their hair and speak in shatteringly fast Spanish, with occasional updates for my benefit: “we talk about a car crash…” At these moments, everyone turns to me, waiting for some insightful contribution. But with such little information, I find it hard to offer much of value. “Oh” I say. “Yes, we have them in England too.” You may scorn me, but under the pressure of all their Maybelline-lined gazes, that was all that came to me. I will live with the consequences.

The temptation to sit in a corner and lick my wounds is great. I never wanted to be a fashion journalist and I have only a backpack filled with creased clothing (and a woeful lack of Jimmy Choos) with which to last out my two months at this magazine. But I always knew that the world of journalism wasn’t the most forgiving place and still I am desperate to wheedle my way in there. So Monday morning I shall return to Las Rosas looking as presentable as possible and avoid any more jewels of wisdom about car crashes. Beauty is supposed to come from the inside but if that doesn’t get me anywhere (and I have to say it never has in the past – I must have very unattractive innards) then hard work just might get me somewhere. Wish me luck!