There’s a particular kind of grief that only photographers understand.
It’s not the sudden crash of a lens hitting concrete or the slow heartbreak of a corrupted memory card—it’s when a camera you’ve trusted for over a decade quietly fades away. When the signs have been there for a while, but you’ve been too loyal (or too skint) to accept them.
This is a love letter, a eulogy, and a public farewell to the best £25 I’ve ever spent: my beloved Yashica T5.
I first got my hands on a Yashica during uni—a T4 that I picked up after reading too many online forums and camera reviews. It was everything I needed at the time: sharp, light, reliable, and fast. It became my everyday carry long before that phrase existed. But it wasn’t until I started working at Jessops that I levelled up.
One of my colleagues, who clearly didn’t realise what he had, casually mentioned he had a Yashica T5 at home gathering dust.
“Twenty-five quid if you want it,” he said.
I didn’t hesitate for a second.
The T5 is the crown jewel of the Yashica compact line—and frankly, of all 35mm point-and-shoots, in my opinion. Carl Zeiss Tessar lens. Active AF. Flash that actually works. And unlike the Contax T2 or Olympus Mju-II, it doesn’t scream “mug me” when you take it out of your pocket. It’s stealthy. Understated. Perfect.
That camera went everywhere with me.
Holidays, house parties, gigs, and road trips. Stuffed in coat pockets and glove boxes. Tossed into backpacks and bounced around pub tables. I must’ve put hundreds of rolls through it—probably thousands of frames, all told. And for over 15 years, it never let me down.
Then, a few years ago, something changed.
I noticed the images coming back weren’t as good as they used to be. Not just once or twice—consistently. My composition was still solid, my subjects interesting, but the photos? Flat. Underexposed. Muted. Even the flash shots looked off—washed out, grainy, and murky.
Naturally, I blamed everything but the camera.
Film prices had crept up, and like many of us, I’d started buying expired stock off eBay. Supposedly cold-stored, but you never really know. Maybe that was the issue?
And then there was the lab. Since my old Jessops manager (and mates’ rates enabler) had moved on, I started using a local chef who processed film in his bathroom. He had a cool brand and solid word-of-mouth, and to his credit, he did a good job—but the inconsistency still bugged me.
Was it the film?
The processing?
The scanner?
I couldn’t afford to test properly—not with fresh stock, pro lab dev & scan, and side-by-side comparisons. So I just… stopped using the T5. It went in a drawer. Every now and then I’d take it out, shoot a roll, and feel disappointed again. It became too painful to keep pretending it was fine.
When I finally opened Just Shoot Film, and the lab was fully stocked with fresh film, clean chemicals, and a reliable scanning kit, I decided to give it one last go.
If the issue was the camera, I’d know for sure this time.
I loaded a fresh roll of Harman Phoenix II, shot with flash on every frame, and processed it myself at the lab. Scanned it the same day. I wanted to give it every chance to shine again.
But alas… no dice.
The results were exactly as I feared:
Low contrast. Overly grainy. Patchy shadows. Blown-out highlights. Flat flash fill. Something was seriously off. Whether it was the shutter timing or metering, I couldn’t say for sure—but the T5 was clearly broken. Not dramatically, but quietly. Terminally.
That was the moment I knew it was over.
It’s a weird thing to get emotional about an old point-and-shoot, especially one that’s objectively just a hunk of plastic and glass. But for me—and for a lot of people who shoot film—these cameras aren’t just tools. They’re time machines. Memory-makers. Extension-of-the-body-type gear.
I know every sound that T5 made. The whirr of the motor. The snap of the shutter. The subtle flash charge-up. I knew exactly how far away I needed to be to get a sharp subject. I trusted it like a friend.
And now… it’s gone.
I’ve since replaced it with another T5—a silver one this time. Much cleaner, and a hell of a lot more than £25. It’s beautiful, and yes, it works perfectly. I’m back in love again. But it’s not that T5. Not the one that got me through my twenties. Not the one that saw me through gigs, holidays, exes, house moves, and everything in between.
The Yashica T5 will always be my favourite compact film camera.
Not just because of the specs—though they’re great. Not just because of the cult following—though that’s fun. But because it never felt like a flex. It just quietly did its job, roll after roll, shot after shot, and let me get on with the business of living.
So this is me saying goodbye.
And thank you.
For every perfect shot. For every imperfect one.
For fifteen years of being in my pocket, ready to go.
Rest well, little prince.
Have you ever had a camera die on you after years of faithful service? Come mourn in the comments. Or tell me your first T-series story. Or your most overrated compact (Contax T2, I’m looking at you 👀). I want to hear it.
