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In a calm suburb of the Irish capital, a person stands outside his home, dressed in a sleeveless jumper and voicing his feelings. “It seems like my voice is fading. More invisible,” states Leonard, gazing up at the night sky. “One thing’s led to another and at this point I believe if I don’t do something, my life will proceed in this minor, harmless existence.” His friend Paul, his only companion, ponders these words. “Nothing wrong with that,” he answers, his robe flapping in the breeze. “Superior to trying to make a mark only to wind up defacing it.”

For viewers tired by the noise and rat-tat-tat of today’s TV terrain, the show steps in like a warm cover with a hot drink of blackcurrant juice.

Like its quiet characters, the series – a six-episode show created by the writing duo, inspired by Rónán Hession’s quiet book – casts a critical eye toward today's world; looking skeptically through its prematurely middle-aged glasses on everything related to unnecessary noise, quick actions or – heaven forfend – an abundance of ambition. The program on the contrary, an ode to introversion; a gentle tribute for those happy to pootle around out of the spotlight. And yet. He (one more uniquely quirky turn from the star) feels restless. He feels a growing “desire to unlock the entryways within my world … slightly.” The recent death of his beloved mother has pulled the carpet from under his slippers and Leonard, an anonymous author, now feels questioning the choices that have brought him to his current situation (alone; defensively moustached; working on several children’s encyclopedias for an employer who ends emails with the phrase “see you later”).

Thus Leonard launches on a journey for emotional fulfilment, accompanied by the somewhat braver Hungry Paul (Laurie Kynaston) functioning as his trusted friend, mentor and co-conspirator during their regular game night that serves both as debate (“Is the water heated from kids relieving themselves, or do children urinate because it’s warm?”) and refuge.

(What's the origin of "Hungry" Paul? No idea. The beginning of the moniker is shrouded in history. It could be that the postal worker once ate some food in record time, or responded to an awkward situation by panic-peeling some food items by biting into them).

Into Leonard’s gentle world bursts a new colleague (Jamie-Lee O’Donnell), a recent lively associate who cheerily offers to eliminate his terrible supervisor (the character) at a fire practice. The swift movement noticeable signals Leonard's peaceful routine undergoing a shake-up.

In other scenes in the initial show of the comedy driven less by plot and more on what the under-30s might call “atmosphere”, viewers encounter Hungry Paul’s dad (the consistently great the actor), a tired character who covertly observes, records then replays daytime quiz shows to impress his adoring wife through his fact recall.

Leading viewers throughout this gentle kindness we hear a narrator who closely resembles – and truly is – the Hollywood icon. Indeed, Julia Roberts. Should you wonder, “certainly the inclusion of a major Hollywood star is at odds with the series’ unshowy MO and initially serves only as a diversion?” you would be correct. Still, Roberts does a good job, and phrases for example “The issue with Leonard is the missing an expression of discovery” contribute to ensuring that early misgivings fade if not quite to appreciation, then at least acceptance.

No more criticism for now. The show's core is well-intentioned: which is “sitting on a park bench in the company of gentle comedies, pointing out the duck it loves.” This is a show that strolls leisurely in comfortable attire, at times staring toward the sky, occasionally down toward the ground, serenely certain that nothing is on Earth as uplifting as being alongside good friends.

Throw open the portals in your existence, a little, and welcome it inside.