The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking about our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

‘It is always a privilege to grow older.’ Photograph: Anna Woodford

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. 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 waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.