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That instant I realized my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, 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 put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that 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 helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of directing attention externally 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 now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.