To please my number one latex Mistress, I wore rubber despite the hot weather, a yellow and green reversed rubber T-shirt (shiny side inside) from James Beavis's 'Eraser' range.

August was my birthday month and Alexia wanted to give me my presents before disappearing off on vanilla vacation. I'm a spoilt slut. Enough candles to keep shipping away and one of those intriguing bath bombs from Lush.

We entertained stunned diners on nearby tables with talk of pervery and my reading out aloud Alexia's account of her visit to Ess and Emm.

The lunch was over all too soon. After seeing my Mistress back to her office, I headed home. I found myself slipping into the charity shop at Forest Gate where were displayed a very sci-fi medical coat and some frogmen's flippers I'd resisted buying for days but could resist no longer.

Once home, I continued production on my latest Super 8 fetish film 'Zip's Tipsy Dressing Up Days', a filmic record of me getting progressively tipsier in a succession of increasingly kinky outfits. I'm on the fourth and final roll of film, shooting titles and credits in tipsy scrawly spidery handwriting with superimposed printed sub-titles, an idea suggested by Mistress Feral.

I next have to film myself drinking in the gas mask Aylith kindly gave me (it has an integral rubber straw), my scary goth girl guise, and one of my latex outfits with an open-faced hood so that I can film myself applying liquid latex to my face.

The film will not be complete in time for this year's Raindance Film Festival at the end of October, where they are showing four of my fetish films. Details on www.Raindance.co.uk.

Transfers from Super 8 to projectable Beta SP for a large cinema like the UGC in the Haymarket, which I remember in all its single-screen, 1920s glory from seeing Batman there when it was called the Carlton in1967, have to be arranged, and I'd like to thank Charles Marriott, director of Granada's 'Fetish Seen' series, for kindly agreeing to facilitate the transfers.

Thursday night seemed like firework night in my bathroom as the bath bomb fizzed and sparkled away and threw off enough glitter for me, my bath, my bed and my new nightdress to be still covered in the stuff a week later.

Thank you, Mistress. You spoil me rotten.

Friday, in common with all last Fridays of the month, was the night for Subway, Mistress Feral's very own Femme Domme night at The Fringe. I reported to Her house at the appointed time.

After spending some time as her secretary, dealing with admin, filing my nails, reading stories to Her, and answering e-mails (the only time I'm actually allowed to look at my e-mails is under Her supervision), we ventured southwards to Vauxhall to prepare ourselves, comestibles and candles for a night of perving.

It was office party night at Subway. Slappy hour! Mistress Feral had kindly given me a new secretary's dress to wear, black with poppers up the front which kept popping open at the slightest provocation to reveal my tight, restrictive, itchy bra and false tits.

I gave up re-poppering myself eventually and descended into the character of a slag with her tits on show.

The place filled to a respectable 30 or 40 people making full use of the equipment. Six new subbies had phoned Anna during the day to ensure they wouldn't have leeches placed on them, and there were people from as far afield as Spain, Italy and Dunstable.

Some said they'd had the best night of their lives, while others who had skulked submissively in the shadows for something exciting to happen to them were a little disappointed.

I had a great time serving strawberries on a silver salver to the assembled throng as I teetered around on five and a half inch heeled shoes Mistress Feral gave me for my birthday.

Thank you, Mistress. You spoil me rotten.

Mistress Tytania looked delicious in her little latex, tied-tight-at-the-throat dress as she whipped Alex Jacob. A large latin Mistress kept a Roman senator in his place, and Mistresses provided tactile tortures to delight the dominated. A visiting Spanish Mistress in pervy PVC was very impressed by the screams I uttered under caning. And my tits kept popping out.

It was one of those milling and chilling events where you lay back to rest your tired feet and think, "I'm very privileged to be a part of this exclusive and rather special scene".

The next day I felt far too exhausted to go to Torture Garden. I spent the whole day lying down, listening to Radio 4 plays, falling asleep and assuring myself that I would not make myself go to Torture Garden. At 52, I can't handle two nights of clubbing in a row.

Just before I went to bed to sleep, Mistress Feral phoned and gave me my orders. I turned up at Her house at the appointed time, and, at a fashionably acceptable time, we ventured out to find Torture Garden's new Egg venue on York Way.

After a few circuits of the area, we stumbled across parties of pervs parking in an adjacent side street. We got changed in the car to arrive at Egg in costume. Mistress Feral became a corseted policewoman while I turned into a tart in torn tights, a latex hotpants skirty thing from Libidex, red PVC bra and tits, animal print kitten heels and a long rubber raincoat from Ectomorph.

Egg proved to be a wonderful new venue. It was just a shame that this August night proved too chilly to take full advantage of the large outdoor areas where Mistress Feral was making me stand and freeze anyway.

Mind you, we couldn't possibly have missed the bathing beauty contest with Simon Rose from Libidex hiding in the most amazing green spotty dress and hood. Nor could we miss being enchanted by the girl in the heated fishtank.

Egg is a rambling, multi-level, multi-room venue with back passages and stairways to explore. We found the dungeon bar very quickly. Someone had to break the ice, so Mistress Feral had me up on that nice padded comfy cross for a severe caning.

Mistress is very impressed with how well I can take a lengthy caning without screaming so much as I used to.

As the night went on, we kept finding new bits of the place as we bumped into lots of friends, danced, drank and dehydrated. People had made an effort to dress for the beach party theme. There were pervy pirates, saucy sailors and mutant matelots everywhere.

Every so often we would find somewhere to sit, and I was greatly privileged to be allowed to gently massage my Mistress's lovely feet back to life after the punishing treatment they received in those gorgeous shiny boots. Ahhh! The heady aroma! Yum! The warm moistness of sweaty toes on my fingers. I am most honoured.

Like the tart I am, I posed for anyone and everyone's photographs with no idea at all where they might end up, flashing my tits as they flashed their bulbs.

Clip-clop we went on the wooden stairs and floors. Hugs, kisses and squeezes abounded. And some of the outfits were just so gorgeous. Latex was moulded to flesh. PVC pressed against profiles. Fetish virgins talked about how frightened they had been before arriving and how deliciously delightful the night had proved to be. More converts. Yum!

We tried to break the record for squeezing tarts into a toilet cubicle, but Bobette, Sally, Feral and myself couldn't all get into one in any of the combinations we tried. Big bags are always a handicap.

Outside again, we chilled out, literally, under the only working heater, where I had a nice long chat with James Beavis about inside-out rubber clothing.

Mistress Feral kept spoiling me with drinks, but we found the no alcohol after 2pm rule a bit disappointing. We rehydrated.

Then we discovered a whole new floor with spinning lights that seemed to go back for ever upstairs just before it became the first area to be closed. We ended the night on the dance floor, me gently moving up and down to the pulsating rhythms while those with more energy moved more noticeably.

I was flagging and was very grateful to get a lift from Bobette as far as Holborn Viaduct, where I seemed to be waiting for a night bus after night buses had finished.

After sleeping through to an unprecedented 11am in my new slinky black nightdress (£8 from BHS), I was determined to continue the weekend of pervery by attending Wicked's fetish fair and after-party.

I slipped into something meshy and rubbery and ventured towards London Bridge (purely to get full value from my weekend travelcard).

Taking the 344 to Southwark Bridge and walking to Wicked along historic Bankside proved a bad decision as I had three taxing confrontations with cyclists on a narrow strip of pavement in rapid succession.

When I was a solicitor's clerk, the law was quite clear and sensible. Pavements were invented to protect pedestrians from the dangers of wheeled conveyances. Their presence on pavements was strictly illegal. Of course, that was in the days when people bothered to do cycling proficiency tests and studied the Highway Code before venturing out on wheels.

I found myself once again ratifying my super hero status as I had done some years ago in Windsor when I bravely stood in the path of motor cars trying to take a short cut through a pedestrian park. They had to reverse out and go the long way round.

Like the knight in Monty Python's Holy Grail it was a case of 'None shall pass'.

The first two cyclists were relatively easy to deal with, being quiet Europeans who would rather be on their way than caught in pavement gridlock. After timid protests they were off the pavement and using the otherwise empty road.

The black guy smoking a spliff and cycling in a haze of self importance was a different matter. He was ordering me out of his way, spitting in my face as he spoke, battering me with his bike and threatening to murder me as his illicit little fag got dangerously close to my clothing and his filthy front wheel, which had doubtless ridden through the spittle, vomit, dog turds and urine that these days carpet London's streets, marked my pristine, polished Murray and Vern rubber jacket.

Against threats of murder and accusations of being a homosexual for the way I was dressed, when most of the homosexuals I know wear polo shirts and jeans, I stood stoically like the guardsmen on duty at the Tower of London as this dope-head, dick-head tried every tactic he could to get me to jump into the gutter out of his way.

Tourists gathered on the other pavement to watch the confrontation. Only alcohol swigging vagrants came to support me. The last sensible, caring people in London, they of the indigenous populace, had clearly been squeezed by high prices and unemployment into homelessness in a country officially overcrowded in the 1390s.

Confused, spliff man began a new tactic of calling me his brother. This wasn't to work on me either as I could not recall growing up with him nor my mother giving birth to him, nor him cheating me out of my food as my real brother had done.

It was a full 20 minutes before he gave up and moved his wheels into the street asking directions to Trafalgar Square.

Score: 3 to sanity. 0 to bullies on bikes.

But the event took its toll. Combined with two late clubbing nights, I had a very short fuse and was feeling wafer thin when I entered Wicked and that lovely creature on the door told me I was on the guest list.

I spent a pleasant hour or two perusing the pervery on the stalls, having a drink or two with friends, and chatting with the General and Lady Caroline about forthcoming events. Wicked Cabaret sounds very interesting, as does their school night on Sept 20th at which my presence as Sister Zipperella the PVC nun has been requested. And, of course, I must keep myself fresh for the Captain Zip Look-Alike Contest at the October fair's after-party.

All those delicious Mistresses seemed so pleased to see me. I got kissed by Mistress Absolut, who we were all so worried about when she was in hospital; and squeezed by Goddess Raven Rose, who looked remarkably fresh despite flying in sleepless from a performance in Sweden. People seemed very impressed to hear that I'd been electrocuted by her on television.

I was almost tempted by some gusseted rubber leggings on the Defy the Norm stall, and a simple latex dress on another stall, but my dwindling finances made me extra-resistant.

The talk was all of irritation with cyclists, of motorists having had to drive onto bollards to avoid running over them when they speed out onto the street from the pavement, of the need for them to be tested, licenced and registered with number plates like other vehicles are.

Sadly, just as increasing numbers of cyclists don't seem to know the rules of the road, there are those who have been on the fetish scene for years without seeming to have absorbed the rules of fetish etiquette. Jangled from standing up for the rights of pedestrians and two nights of clubbing, I then had to give severe telling offs to a transvestite who groped my bottom and a Wicked regular who started striking my bottom with a paddle without my consent.

I'd had enough. As I left the venue, the young girl on the front desk was being handcuffed without her consent.

I got home in time for a phone call from my much adored and worshipped Mistress Feral. She couldn't believe I'd gone out after two nights of clubbing. I couldn't believe that she'd been so tired that she'd driven around for hours unable to find her way home.

It all gets to be too much sometimes.