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In a calm area of Dublin, an individual is standing in his driveway, wearing a vest and voicing his thoughts. “I notice my voice is fading. Less noticeable,” says Leonard, staring into the darkness. “One thing’s led to another and now I feel like without a change, I will continue in this quiet, unremarkable life.” Paul, Leonard’s best companion, ponders this statement. “There's no harm in that,” he answers, his bathrobe flapping gently. “Preferable to trying to make a mark only to wind up defacing it.”

For anyone tired by the bluster and rat-tat-tat of today’s TV terrain, the show comes as a warm cover and warming mug of Ribena.

Like its gentle leads, Leonard and Hungry Paul – a six-part show created by Richie Conroy and Mark Hodkinson, adapted from Rónán Hession’s quiet story – looks disapprovingly on contemporary society; gazing skeptically above its prematurely middle-aged glasses on everything related to loud sounds, sudden movements or – perish the thought – excessive aspiration. The series on the contrary, an ode to introversion; a subtle homage for those satisfied to amble along away from attention. However. He (a further distinctly original performance by the actor) is unsettled. He notices a creeping “desire to unlock the entryways of my life … slightly.” The passing of his parent has yanked the floor out from under him and the 32-year-old, a ghost writer, now realizes doubting the decisions which led him to his current situation (alone; with a protective mustache; writing multiple kids' reference books for a boss who signs off emails saying “ciao for now”).

And so Leonard launches an exploration for personal satisfaction, accompanied by the somewhat braver Paul (Laurie Kynaston) serving as his trusted friend, mentor and ally in a weekly game night functioning as both symposium (“Is the water heated because kids pee in it, or do children urinate since it's warm?”) and sanctuary.

(What's the origin of "Hungry" Paul? No idea. The origin of this name appears lost to the mists of time. Maybe Paul on one occasion consumed a sandwich unusually quickly, or reacted to a socially fraught incident by hastily opening some food items by biting into them).

Into Leonard’s gentle world bursts a vibrant character (Jamie-Lee O’Donnell), a new spring-loaded colleague who lightheartedly proposes to get rid of Leonard’s appalling boss (the character) at a fire practice. The rushing noise audible signals Leonard's peaceful routine experiencing a revolution.

In other scenes in the first episode of the comedy focused less on story and centered around what the under-30s could describe as “atmosphere”, viewers encounter Paul's father (the consistently great the actor), a tired character who secretly watches, saves and reviews television game programs to impress his devoted partner with his general knowledge.

Leading viewers throughout this minor-key niceness is a narrator that sounds very much like – and, indeed, very much is – the Hollywood icon. Indeed, the celebrity. In case you're considering, “undoubtedly the inclusion of such a famous actor contradicts the series’ unshowy MO and initially serves only as a distraction?” you would be correct. Nevertheless, Roberts acquits herself well, and lines like “Leonard’s problem is his absence of a look of sudden insight” assist in making sure that initial doubts yield if not full admiration, then at minimum tolerance.

But that’s enough grumbling currently. The series' spirit has good intentions: the right place being “resting on a bench alongside similar shows, indicating its favourite duck.” This is a show that ambles along in comfortable attire, sometimes gazing upward into space, occasionally down at its feet, serenely certain that there is nothing in the world as cheering as being in the company of close companions.

Open the doors and windows of your life, slightly, and let it in.