Sod him!, Sod it!, Sod that bastard!

[…] with a squadrilla to meet the aviators, and as soon as the plane was visible from the shore, ship sirens and whistles blew and flags flew from every mast.

He's in the garden hanging his smalls on the washing line.

The appeal of the spectrally macabre is generally narrow because it demands from the reader a certain degree of imagination and a capacity for detachment from every-day life.