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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.