Our fathers are still being failed by the law At this point, there is very little that a loving father can do, except hope that his offspring might be persuaded to review the decision when he or she reaches adulthood. If he had gone to court to protest at being denied access, the judge might well have agreed - but what would actually have been done, beyond the issuing of more court orders? Judges are reluctant to send such a mother to jail, even though she might be flouting the law: such a decision would, once again, impact upon the unfortunate child. This is not a fanciful scenario: I know personally of at least two fathers who have been estranged in similar circumstances from children whom they love very deeply, and think about constantly. Their cases are far from unusual. I am not, of course, pretending that all fathers are saints, and all mothers are villains. A small minority of fathers are violent, threatening, drug- or alcohol-addicted or abusive, and it will be in the best interests of their children not to have them around. In such cases, the mother would be right to withhold contact and a court correct to back her up. In extreme circumstances, the ideal of access to both parents cannot be upheld. Yet most of the time, we are not talking about extreme circumstances. Nor does the principle of "shared parenting" have to translate into "equal time," which would be tricky and vexing to enforce. But children have a right to some meaningful relationship with their father, quite independently of their mother's arrangements. Adult relationships fail for all sorts of reasons, but it is quite possible for a man to be a pretty useless husband and a perfectly decent dad. We want men to take responsibility for their children, to be involved in their birth and early years, to help with the night feeds and the homework and the cost of child-rearing. Yet all of that strengthens the bonds of parental love, that most awkward and stubborn of emotions. It cannot suddenly be dismissed as pointless, like a kind of emotional appendix, when one half of a marriage deems it inconvenient. I can imagine the ferocious pain of being prevented from seeing my own children. Why should I be so arrogant as to assume that divorced fathers do not feel a similar pain, in circumstances in which their conduct towards their progeny is blameless? And that is why I wish the working party good luck, when it begins its deliberations on Monday. God knows it's going to need it. Meet the Reaper without regrets Bronnie Ware, an Australian palliative nurse, has published a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, based on how her patients felt about their lives. High among the regrets was "I wish I hadn't worked so hard" (particularly among men) and "I wish that I had let myself be happier." Miss Ware's observations are worth keeping in mind, even for those of us who hope that death might be a little way off: indeed, the anticipation of a deathbed regret is a neat device by which to reorder one's priorities. I have always preferred the British climate, but - in the midst of the present deep chill - I am beginning to think that one of mine might be: "I wish I had spent more time in warm places, drinking wine, without suffering a perpetual cold." After some decades in which the detail of death seemed to be almost taboo, we are once again taking an interest in whether death itself can be done with style. In that spirit it is worth taking heart from those who managed to remain cheerful, and even wittily trivial, in the face of the Grim Reaper. "I've had a hell of a lot of fun and I've enjoyed every minute of it" (Errol Flynn). "It's all been rather lovely" (John le Mesurier). "I've never felt better" (Douglas Fairbanks). And, asked if he had any last words of wisdom, Conrad Hilton replied: "Leave the shower curtain on the inside of the tub." A pirouetting pinnacle of masculinity The stage musical of Singin" in the Rain, I see, is returning to London's West End. But for those who can't make it to the theatre, the sight of Gene Kelly tap-dancing through a downpour in the film version is a sharp reminder of the breadth of expression that masculinity has abandoned. For a start, Kelly is sporting a fedora hat, without self-consciousness. He is also dancing, buoyed by love, as though only his shoes are anchoring him to the ground. A hint of burliness suggests that he could, if necessary, none the less deliver an effective right hook to anyone who interfered with his joyful progress. The happy confidence that Kelly exudes has been lost, over the years, to a more aggressive and fragile version of masculinity: the surly, gun-toting type that appears in music videos, standing still while a bevy of girls gyrates around him. It is only now, with the success of Jean Dujardin, the raffish tap-dancing star of the silent film The Artist, that women are remembering just how much we like men who look as if they know how to have an effortlessly good time. Take my word for it: real men do dance.