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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 reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope 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 a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune 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 lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.