In 1986, as I excitedly awaited my first SLR, I sent for the TOE catalogue.
This small glossy pamphlet proved deeply disturbing: It introduced the Zenit family, beside whom the Mansons were really quite normal.
Daddy Zenit, a burly man in a paternal sweater, was outspoken in praise of the Zenit 12XP. Yet friction loomed on the generation front: His eager - if curiously middle-aged - son was equally besotted with the Zenit 11. Grandpa’s fading faculties were touchingly apparent in his fervent advocacy of the Lubitel 166, whilst the comfortingly solid daughter of the house believed her Cosmic Symbol the last word in chic.
Mum - whom from what I recall, restricted her photography to babies and bunnies - found the Zenit 35F ideal. It was strongly implied that this horrible camera was especially intended for ladies and dolts.
I feel the Zenits still abide in the pebbledashed maze of the north London suburbs, their curtains drawn and floors bestrewn with yellowing copies of Soviet Weekly, the last of the Orwochome thawing in the fridge. Thus fades the human flotsam of empire. Sic transit gloria Krasnogorsk
Ian