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In a quiet suburb of the Irish capital, a man can be found outside his home, dressed in a tank top and voicing his thoughts. “It seems like I'm becoming more silent. Less noticeable,” states Leonard, staring toward the stars. “Events have unfolded and at this point I feel like if I don’t do something, my life will proceed in this simple, peaceful routine.” Paul, his only and only friend, considers this statement. “There's no harm in that,” he answers, his robe moving in the breeze. “Superior to striving for recognition and ending up damaging things.”

For anyone exhausted by the bluster and fast pace of today’s TV offerings, this series arrives as a warm cover with a hot drink of a sweet cordial.

In line with its quiet characters, Leonard and Hungry Paul – a half-dozen installment comedy developed by its authors, adapted from Rónán Hession’s quiet story – looks disapprovingly at modern life; gazing critically through its eyewear toward anything related to loud sounds, abrupt changes or – perish the thought – excessive aspiration. The program on the contrary, a celebration of shyness; a gentle tribute for those content to pootle around away from attention. However. He (one more sublimely idiosyncratic turn from Alex Lawther) is unsettled. He notices an increasing “desire to unlock the entryways of my life … just a bit.” The loss of his beloved mother has yanked the floor from under his slippers and Leonard, a ghost writer, now realizes questioning the paths which led him to his current situation (single; sporting facial hair; writing a range of educational volumes for a boss who concludes messages using the words “ciao for now”).

And so Leonard launches an exploration to find happiness, with the slightly bolder Paul (the actor) functioning as his close companion, mentor and ally during their regular gaming session functioning as both symposium (“Does the pool feel warm because kids pee in it, or do kids pee in it as it's heated?”) and sanctuary.

(Why “Hungry” Paul? It's unclear. The source of this name is shrouded to the mists of time. Maybe Paul on one occasion consumed some food in record time, or responded to a socially fraught incident by panic-peeling several snacks with his teeth).

Arriving in Leonard's calm existence cartwheels a vibrant character (the performer), a fresh lively co-worker who cheerily offers to eliminate his terrible supervisor (Paul Reid) at a fire practice. That whooshing sound audible signals Leonard's peaceful routine being turned upside down.

In another part in the first episode of a series driven less by plot and more on what the under-30s could describe as “mood”, viewers encounter Paul's father (the brilliant the performer), a worn-out individual who privately views, tapes and rewatches television game programs to impress his loving spouse through his fact recall.

Shepherding us through all this gentle kindness is a narrator that is unmistakably – and truly is – the Hollywood icon. Indeed, Julia Roberts. Should you wonder, “surely the use of such a famous actor is at odds with the series’ unshowy MO and at first acts merely as an interruption?” you're right. However, the actress performs admirably, and dialogue such as “Leonard’s problem is his absence of a ‘eureka’ face” contribute to ensuring that early misgivings yield if not quite to appreciation, then at minimum tolerance.

But that’s enough grumbling at this time. The series' spirit has good intentions: that place is “located on a seat next to the Detectorists, showing its favourite duck.” The program that ambles along wearing its simple clothes, occasionally looking up at the stars, sometimes downward toward the ground, quietly confident that no experience is on Earth as heartening as spending time with dear pals.

Unlock the entryways within your world, slightly, and allow it entry.