The other day at work we were talking about whether we’d been obsessed with houses even as kids, and the answer, it seems, was a universal Yes. We all remembered a fascination with the Brambly Hedge books, kind of twee animal books full of cross sections of elaborate mouse houses in tree trunks. But the interiors I studied most as a child were in my Carl Larsson books, bought for me each birthday from the age of about four by Mum and Dad.

The Swedish painter depicted scenes from his family life, most often in the house they’d decorated in Arts & Crafts style. Every picture was so full of detail, and often the same rooms were painted again and again from different angles. The memory of looking at this living room is so vivid, puzzling over the rug that was more like a scarf, and wanting – ever the show off – a room of my own with a little raised stage in it.

I also clearly remember loving the structure of the house. There are ornate half screens dividing rooms, doors and hatches half-way up walls, and the family seemed to sleep in built-in beds with curtains. All painted in rich reds and greens. They even painted flowers on the door panels. It all seemed such an impossibly cool way to live, and still does.

The house still stands, owned by descendants of Karl and his wife, and you can visit, or see pictures of the rooms intact on their website. But weirdly, for me, the real thing just can’t match up to the paintings.