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That instant I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. 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. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office 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. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.