Conundrum

My conundrum is not to write or not to write; my conundrum is of what to write.
Could my daily problems with my ill-disciplined dogs really interest anybody.
And what about the unsavory neighbors, the Mad Queen and his entourage. Takers ?
Or my trips down the slippery memory lane to a time long, long ago, when men were men and women were chattels. Anybody ?
So maybe I should just write what comes to mind like
I like to take the bus
I do enjoy not having to drive to town once in a while, not to have to worry about finding parking, which has turned into a nightmare here in Vallarta, which was never meant to have automobile traffic in its narrow, winding streets.
And more than anything, I enjoy people watching in the bus.
The other day I was watching a young lad, maybe eighteen years old, sitting with a child on his lab. A child of about three. The joy was to watch the absolute devotion the lad had towards the kid who kept falling asleep, and the care he took to protect the wee one from banging his head against the seat. how he constantly tried to make the kid comfortable and when he had to wake him up for the end of the trip, the sheer delight in the little one's grumpiness.
l loved watching this little domestic happening. And they got off, the wee one complaining and the lad smiling and hoisting him up on his shoulders to walk home, and I went to my stop and walked up the hill to a collection of screaming, ill favored mutts.
To each his own.