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The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over 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 also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. 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 repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.