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That instant I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I glimpsed 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 leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, 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 thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to get older.