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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.