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That instant I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward 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 flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard 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 put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.