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That instant it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi 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 offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn 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 escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event 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 whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.