With good stuff, mind. My favourite sweater has a good pedigree.
According to those in the know, such as this Savile Row tailor, W. Bill Ltd. (in business since 1846) is "best known in our business as THE tweed and cashmere specialists" (emphasis his).
That said, it's a garment of modest style. It's a very basic turtleneck jumper, with simple ribbing at the neck, cuffs and hem.
Unfortunately, my poor camera skills and the atrocious light this very damp, windy day has offered up don't show the sweater to its best advantage.
You'll have to take my word that it's a lovely olive green. It is a bit itchy, I must admit, but one the rare occasions I've worn it (for it provides incredible warmth, much more than Vancouver's climate requires on all but the most unusually frosty days) I've worn a slim cotton turtleneck underneath.
It does, however, display a bit of wear, despite its rare trips out of my dresser; it could use a good de-pilling. But that's to be expected in a garment of it's vintage.
For this is a sweater of some maturity. It is older than I, by a good few years. It was given to me -- well, lent to me, really -- by my father one unusually cold Vancouver winter day many years ago. I don't remember when, exactly. But I've had it for at least 15 years now.
I believe the sweater had been given to him by my maternal grandmother. Or perhaps he bought it for himself when my parents visited England the year after they married. At any rate, on that cold Vancouver day he was a little bigger than when he first wore it (and goodness knows, I was a lot smaller than I am now; it's a very tight squeeze at the moment), so Dad didn't object when I failed to return it.
So it wasn't a gift, per se, but nevertheless I loved it like it was. And I love it even more today, on the second anniversary of my father's death.
I miss him.