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That instant I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college 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 conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, 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 wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware 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 pushed the derailment from our minds 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, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal 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 skill in managing any situation, 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 accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.