LIFE hangs by a thread. Sliding doors. There but for the grace of... there is no shortage of cliches for the delicate balance of our lives.

We all had to talk about the crash. In dribs and drabs, the machinery of that night's inquest gathered momentum, like a motor with furred plugs reluctantly spluttering into life.

None of us was remotely hurt. Not really shaken. That's the truth of it. There was a shudder and then the right-hand side of the carriage went over something soft.

Yes. I know what you're thinking.

Although I had never experienced anything like this before, instinct told me that the obstruction - whatever it was - could not have been wood or metal.

Perhaps it's better if we do not dwell on this aspect of the accident.

But the violence of the driver's braking left us in no doubt. Something serious was happening. Minds started racing.

Paper cups rolled off tables. Plastic utensils hit the floor, bouncing once. The person across the aisle held the table between finger and thumb, automatic bracing for whatever was to follow.

The toilet door flew open, hitting the side of the carriage with a metallic crack, a sickening finale in this soundscape of disaster.

The train shuddered to a halt. Then the deafening silence.

A First Great Western employee strode towards us, followed by another. The second man said something about the other checking the rear of the train. He would "have to tell them something."

The second man's face was the colour of ashes.

This looked bad. First thoughts... the train had hit someone who had either strayed by accident - or intention - on to the track. The sickly, soft thud. Remember?

The first announcement came. "It appears we have hit something," says the man. And then, ominously: "We may be here for some time."

Our thoughts turned to our own predicament. We were bound for the South of France and due to catch the 12.25 Eurostar bound for Lille. The plan was to board the TGV fast train for Aix-en-Provence.

It dawned on us that one missed connection would not only throw out our travelling plans but also disrupt the hotel reservations, too. Whatever we had hit became an irrelevance.

The fate of the holiday now hung in the balance.

And there was the office, too. My professional instincts told me to call in. But I had no information - and, in any event, the mobile had gone dead, the signal broken by the embankments.

We were told to stay in our seats, where we remained waiting for instructions. Very British. Another announcement. We would be delayed for some considerable time.

An hour went by. It became apparent that there was no way we could arrive at Paddington, travel by Tube across London, and check in for the 12.25 Eurostar.

People started to move along the carriages. We may be able to obtain a signal further up the train...

At last. We contact French Travel Service and explain the problem. They promise to sort out the hotels, but we must call Eurostar and re-negotiate the tickets. And then there was the TGV side of the equation.

What was score there? There was no chance of boarding the 3.30 southbound for Aix...

Rumours were now abounding, the carriages alive with theory and counter-theory. First we had hit a van... then it was a minibus. One person was dead... then it was three fatalities.

There was also an unknown number of injured. Some were badly hurt, said the woman two seats along.

Overhead, the throb of the Air Ambulance could be heard. Police officers in fluorescent jackets started moving through the compartments, carrying clipboards and asking questions.

What did you see? Did you hear anything? What can you remember?

The phone signal had gone dead again. Perhaps someone had a mobile I could borrow.

Then came the announcement. The train would move forward for a few yards to test the fitness of the engine and see if it was able to limp the mile-and-a-half to Evesham.

A police officer then told us what had happened. The train had struck a minibus on an unmanned crossing at Charlton. Three people were dead, several injured.

We strolled up to the buffet bar for a coffee. At last... a signal. I rang the office.

The train limped into Evesham station. After the stress of the accident and resulting delay, more dilemmas. The First Great Western staff - whose behaviour was exemplary throughout - offered us the choice of a taxi to Waterloo or a Thames Service Train.

As we pondered the options, a scrum of journalists and film crew waylaid as many people as possible.

We boarded the London train and debated our next move. An MP, followed by a Bishop sashayed past. All it required was a guitar-playing nun and we would have the complete set for a 1970s disaster movie.

Meanwhile, as the great and the good resumed their daily lives, the staff gave out a never-ending supply of drinks, rolls, and biscuits. Heroes and heroines all. They were a credit to their calling.

Time for the "what ifs". The train from Worcester Foregate Street to Paddington had been 10 minutes late. Had it arrived on time, of course - or even later - then the course of events would have been quite different.

But also, by the same token, had the minibus been slightly more over the line - or back - then the outcome could have been much worse. As it was, the vehicle was shunted out of the way by the train.

But had the minibus been blocking the track, then arguably, it would have been the train that derailed. The consequences can only be guessed at... scores of dead and injured. The permutations were endless.

The accident wreaked havoc with the start of our holiday. But, in the scheme of things, this was perhaps a small price to pay. For we were a mere 24 hours too late.

But for the three itinerant foreign crop pickers - who had started off for work on that sunny July morning last year - it was a lifetime too early.