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In a calm suburb of Dublin, a person can be found in his driveway, dressed in a tank top and expressing his thoughts. “I notice I'm becoming more silent. Less noticeable,” says the protagonist, staring up at the night sky. “Events have unfolded and now I feel like without a change, my life will proceed in this simple, peaceful routine.” Hungry Paul, Leonard’s best confidant, reflects on the idea. “Nothing wrong with that,” he answers, his bathrobe swaying in the breeze. “Preferable to attempting to leave an impact and ending up damaging things.”

For anyone weary by the noise and constant stimulation of modern television landscape, Leonard and Hungry Paul comes as a warm cover with a hot drink of blackcurrant juice.

Like its harmless protagonists, Leonard and Hungry Paul – a half-dozen installment program developed by its authors, adapted from Rónán Hession’s quiet story – looks disapprovingly on contemporary society; looking skeptically above its eyewear on everything in the way of loud sounds, sudden movements or – heaven forfend – excessive aspiration. This show on the contrary, a tribute to quiet people; a gentle tribute of those satisfied to pootle around out of the spotlight. But. The character (one more sublimely idiosyncratic turn from Alex Lawther) is uneasy. He notices an increasing “need to open the entryways in my existence … just a bit.” The passing of his parent has yanked the floor out from under him and the 32-year-old, a writer for others, now finds himself doubting the decisions which led him to where he is (unattached; with a protective mustache; creating multiple educational volumes for a man who signs off correspondence with the phrase “goodbye for now”).

Thus Leonard launches himself on a quest for emotional fulfilment, with the slightly bolder Paul (the performer) serving as his confidante, guide and co-conspirator during their regular game night that serves both as symposium (“Is the water heated because kids pee in it, or is it that kids pee since it's warm?”) and refuge.

(What's the origin of "Hungry" Paul? The reason is unknown. The source of the moniker is shrouded in history. Perhaps he previously devoured some food in record time, or responded to an awkward situation by nervously peeling some food items with his teeth).

Entering Leonard's quiet life bursts Shelley (Jamie-Lee O’Donnell), a new energetic co-worker who happily suggests to kill his terrible supervisor (Paul Reid) in a workplace safety exercise. The rushing noise you can hear is Leonard’s gentle world undergoing a shake-up.

In another part in the initial show of a series focused less on story and centered around what younger viewers might call “vibes”, we meet Hungry Paul’s dad (the brilliant Lorcan Cranitch), a battered sofa of a man who secretly watches, saves and reviews television game programs to dazzle his adoring wife with his general knowledge.

Guiding us throughout this gentle kindness we hear a narrator who closely resembles – and, indeed, very much is – the famous actress. Indeed, Julia Roberts. If you are thinking, “undoubtedly the use of such a famous actor clashes with the show's modest approach and initially serves only as an interruption?” you're right. Still, the actress performs admirably, and phrases such as “Leonard's challenge is that he lacks a look of sudden insight” assist in making sure that initial doubts yield though not complete approval, then certainly understanding.

Enough complaining at this time. The series' spirit is in the right place: the right place being “located on a seat alongside similar shows, indicating its favourite duck.” It’s a series that moves gently in comfortable attire, at times staring at the stars, sometimes downward at its feet, serenely certain that there is nothing on Earth as heartening as passing time with close companions.

Throw open the portals within your world, a little, and let it in.