As an adult without children, it’s difficult to be sympathetic to the phenomenon that is Frozen. We’re all aware of it, if only peripherally. It was Disney’s return to form. It made obscene amounts of money. It has become the defining film of childhood for a whole generation. I didn’t pay much attention, and when the frenzy for Elsa dolls began last Christmas, I rolled my eyes at the parents hacking one another down with machetes – figuratively speaking – to obtain a coveted doll for their fanatical children.

At the time, I put it down to annual seasonal lunacy and overburdened parents racked with guilt. But since sitting down to watch the film recently, I’ve considered that perhaps the children are only part of it. Certainly, a tiny person staring up at you with large, moist eyes and a facial expression conveying disillusioned bafflement in response to your telling them “Santa has run out of Frozen dolls” is motivation enough. But how many of us look into the pleading eyes that only a child pining for a plastic effigy of an animated character can have, and see ourselves as children? That birthday party that went horribly wrong; the parent who let us down; a series of disappointments. It’s natural enough to want to minimise that for your own child.

Children’s films are exercises in nostalgia, for both young and old. The films we watch when young solidify in our minds as we perceive them at the time. We watch them with a more limited scope and understanding than we will later gain, so they are forever condemned to reside in the nostalgia cabinet in our brains. Retracing those steps can lead to a forlorn sense of time passed and things lost, but it can also be rewarding.

I was aware of this when I watched Frozen this week. I guessed that it would make me yearn for the films of my own childhood, even though they never really existed as I remember them now. I watched The Little Mermaid a few months ago, and found it downright creepy. A voiceless girl must seduce a prince with only her looks. Thanks Disney, valuable lesson there. But at four I was enamoured with the film.

Frozen is a more modern beast. It sends a better message to children, regardless of their gender, about resilience and independence and taking responsibility for your actions. So the current generation will be nostalgic in a different way to mine. Hopefully, they’ll be less complacent, ask more questions, and be better. Maybe they won’t.

Still, Frozen was enjoyable. The tinge of melancholy comes from the fact that, as an adult, very few experiences are purely about what is happening in front of you. We can feel sadness even when happy, and can remember the past while enjoying the present. Revisiting your inner child is healthy. You can never be five again, but attempting to access that child within keeps us from becoming curmudgeonly and encourages a sense of adventure. That is as wonderful as it can be sad.

Doodling uncontrollably

Being told to behave like an adult is depressing and limiting. When we are alone, we don’t behave in a straight-laced, mature manner. We scratch our bums without shame; we spin around on office chairs in a way we never would if someone else were in the room. At a recent meeting, I witnessed a couple of respectable people doodling stick people on their notes and looking up slyly every few moments to check if anyone had noticed. One of them wore a top hat. The stick man, I mean.

If we can get the job done, I see no reason why we can’t allow ourselves to be a little childish while we do it. The idea that adults must be adults all the time is foolish. Most of us revel in something childish on a semi-regular basis. On a recent visit to his mother’s house, I witnessed my partner wrestling on the floor with his two year-old nephew. They then proceeded to have a tea party. It was an informal affair; the tea was imaginary and the conversation limited, but the two giggled as though one of them wasn’t 6ft taller than the other. In the presence of children, we become children again. It’s hanging on to that propensity the rest of the time that’s the challenge.

The Yes Woman says yes to her inner child . . . and no to acting her age

ROLL WITH IT: WAYS TO DEVELOP YOUR IMMATURITY

I’m determined to spend more time developing my immaturity from now on, and to say yes to my inner child more. I frequently stymie less noble urges, but no longer.

Rolling down hills was a particularly satisfying activity in childhood. Rather than worrying about my dignity or my trousers getting grass stains, I’m going to roll down hills more. It has no purpose but creating joy, and nothing could be more childlike than that.

Living in the moment more. Children live entirely in the now, which is partly why their emotional reactions to tiny things – such as the biscuits being gone – can be so extreme. I don’t intend to have more extreme emotional reactions, but enjoying good things without self-consciousness is good for everyone.

Exploring the limits of my body. Though I’ve done some of this already in The Yes Woman, I intend to do more. As children, we push our lungs to dry burning and contort our limbs into bizarre shapes just to see what the limits of our ability are. At some point, we stop falling over and risking grazes, but we also lose that essential connection with our bodies. I’d like it back.