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T I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious 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 upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered 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 ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.