Mine is everything, all, no exceptions, from niche French hipster brand American Vintage. I spit on their Left Bank ways - 55 quid t-shirts that curl up and die in first wash, insanely expensive wool jersey dress that rode up past the waist despite being labelled knee-length, and sweatshirts that go so thin everyone in Clapham gets a good look at my bosom. Even the charity shop ragged the new stuff I brought in in disgust.
So tell me all your quality fails.