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That instant I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.