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That instant I realized my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks 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. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. 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 murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn 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 approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.