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That instant I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, 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 moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing 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 looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.