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That instant I knew my life was in danger 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 visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. 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 hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.