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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

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 went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Later, 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. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking 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 woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt 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 that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, 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 skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.