My Dad was a Pig Farmer
My dad was a pig farmer (the hilarity of this line of work juxtaposed to me becoming Muslim only just hit me 🤣). My mum—a brilliant homemaker. All together with my brother, we lived on a small farm in Australia, with the piggery, some chickens—plus one crazy rooster—for a few years until my folks decided to sell the pigs and open …
A fish and chip shop!
Why? I have no idea. But they were pretty darn good at it—and were burgled multiple times! I mean, nothing says “We’re doing well!” like getting robbed.
I fondly remember entertaining the customers sitting and waiting patiently on the row of plastic chairs lined neatly along the front window, tickets in hand. I also remember Mum (probably panicking at the number of people waiting) encouraging me to go out into the foyer and do a dance or sing a song. And like a performing clown, I happily obliged 
. Were these performances the beginning of my ‘storytelling’ ways? Perhaps.
Eventually, to put it lightly, …
the robberies became a bit of a bother. And even the taste of deep-fried Snapper with salt and vinegar chips or my impromptu jazz dances sprinkled with a bit of light tap couldn’t keep Dad from selling. But where to now?
The farm life beckoned us back. Now, with my little sister in tow too, we moved to a small town nearly five hours away in the country. A wheat and sheep farm would be our new home.
BEST DECISION (Thank you, Allah!).
I remember the drive up …
It was stinking hot. We travelled in our family car, affectionately called “The Green Machine”. I don’t know why, but we do seem to have a habit of naming our cars in my family. There was also “The Yellow Ute”, “The Mini” and “Beryl”—I passed my driver’s license in that one! I think we ran out of creative juices one year when we got a new ute though. We just called it the “Hilux”… because it was a “Toyota Hilux”. There was probably a drought that year—metaphorically and in reality 
.
Anyway, this unintentionally turned into a brief autobiography! So I’ll leave it there for now.
***Addition from Mum
**Addition: After reading this blog, my mum sent me a hilarious email which solved the mystery on where we get the ‘naming cars’ thing from—it’s her!
She told me, in her own words: “My first car was a Honda Scamp, it was blue. I called it “Boris” for no apparent reason and the people at work called it a “pregnant roller skate.”.”
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