On the quiet dignity of a well-set sleeve.

A sleeve that sits is a small architecture. Most people never notice it. That is the point. The cap has to be eased, not stretched; the pitch has to match the wearer's natural hang; the underarm has to close without a fight.

We spend longer on sleeves than on almost any other operation. Auntie Adzoa inspects each one against the light. If the roll is wrong, it comes out. There is no version of this that can be hurried, and we have stopped trying to find one.