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That instant I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. 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. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, 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 – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.