One must tread carefully in this post-Northern Rock climate, but let me announce that I have closed my Post Office account.
Opening the account some thirty years ago was the most grown up thing I have ever done with my money. Borrowing three and a half times my salary to buy a house was nothing compared to handing a five pound note to the nice lady behind the glass screen, and getting it noted down in my little blue plastic book.
(That book came in handy years later when I wanted to join the local video shop in the town to which we had just moved. They required ID with your name and address on and I had nothing to match that description. [This was Tidworth, a garrison town, which really should have been used to the semi-transient nature of its population.] I went home, got one of our new address stickers, stuck it in the book and took it back. I was accepted.)
A few years later I opened my Investment account, getting a little grey plastic book in return. Now I finally reap the rewards of my financial prudence, though to be honest I thought I had done this years ago until I found the books while clearing out the files. The Investment account had grown from £2.07 to £5.10, but I really struck the jackpot with the ordinary account. The 37p that has lain dormant since 1985 had swelled to a majestic 46p.
I'd retire, but I don't know what I'd do with the time.